


LEGENDARY!

by SkirtWithAWeapon



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Gen, I know there's no smut but it's still a good story, Post-Canon, Post-Endgame, at least I think so, canon bent just a little, give it a chance?, the Railroad is in it but it's not about the Railroad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkirtWithAWeapon/pseuds/SkirtWithAWeapon
Summary: Eighteen months after the raid and destruction of the Institute, Jory is living in Diamond City and relatively adjusted to life on the surface.  Just as the thirteen year old notorious prankster begins to dream of becoming more than a dive bar bus boy, representatives from the Railroad come in to town, describing their newest, most brutal adversary yet, and asking for his help.  His chance had come.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work features the wide range of cuss words you'd expect to hear while playing the original video game. It is not rated 'mature' since there is no graphic/descriptive sex, excessive violence, etc. You've been warned! 
> 
> All feedback is welcome. Lay it on me! Cheers, and thanks for reading.

“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh, stop giggling, _shush_ , yer gonna ruin the whole thing!” Jory hissed. Rita was going to get them both caught if she couldn’t get her snickering under control. She clapped both hands over her mouth and continued to wheeze and snort, in spite of herself.

Jory rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the slumbering Diamond City security officer, sprawled on his back and snoring loudly. His tongue poked out of the side of his mouth as Jory carefully lowered the wiggling worm into the gaping maw before him. Jory tactfully hooked the worm onto the officer’s lip, then waved himself and Rita back towards the entrance of the outdoor rest area, beyond the wall. They watched silently as the worm writhed its way into the officer’s mouth completely. He clapped his own hand on top of Rita’s mouth as the officer snored once more, drawing the worm entirely into his mouth. 

Suddenly, the officer was sitting straight up, coughing, gagging, and spluttering. The worm flew out of his mouth to fly across the room and land at Jory and Rita’s feet. Both erupted into raucous laughter, the whole deal, clutching their guts with tears running down their faces. 

“You _brats_!” the officer roared. Jory and Rita spun on their heels and dashed back down the road, following the wall, breezing past the turrets and fortifications to run through the main gate and into the stairwell. They crumpled into a heap, out of breath from running, and laughing.

“Up to your old shenanigans, are you, Jory?” drawled a familiar deep voice.

“Hi, Mr. Valentine,” Rita squeaked. She was on her feet and out of sight in a flash. 

Jory, sprawled out on his back, opened his eyes to see the roughed up plastic faceplate of Diamond City’s synth P.I. glaring down at him. He smirked. “Just a little bit of fun, Nicky. Nothing more than keeping things spicy.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “Things kind of drag around in general, these days.”

“Huh. I can’t argue with that, but I can’t condone the mischief, either. That’s how raiders start, you know that, right?” 

“Phbbt. I like a good prank, Nick, but I’m not into the random beheadings. Aren’t you a detective? You must know that.” Jory waved him off and made to stand up, himself.

“I _know_ that you’re otherwise a smart kid who is probably bored. You should consider doing something more with your life, that’s all.” Valentine shrugged, turned, and made his way down the stairwell and towards the main gate. Jory watched the old synth retreat, and went the opposite direction, instead. He paused at the top of the metal walkway. The market was thriving – overrun, really. It had been like that for the past eighteen months, since the destruction of the Institute. Jory picked his way through the crowd in an attempt to cross through the market towards the radio station. 

So much had changed in the past year and a half. The market, as everyone had known it for decades, would be unrecognizable by those standards. Housing expanded into the lower stands, and nearly all of the main level was dedicated to trading and other commerce. Caravans lined up outside the walls for days just to get in and trade. The market never, ever closed. The city itself no longer maintained its own crops, able to sustain itself completely by trade.

It was thriving, and hellishly boring.

Jory dove through the door of the radio station and kicked it shut behind him. He took a deep breath and slid down the door to the floor.

“Today’s weather has held, breezy and cool and sunny as all get-out. What better to chase that forecast than with one of my most favourite tunes, ‘Crazy He Calls Me’ by Billie Holiday.” Travis clicked off his mic and flicked the switch for the music playback. He swivelled in his chair and took a swig out of a canteen before addressing Jory. “Got caught again?” 

“Me? Never. Old Valentine just called me on it.” Jory nodded towards the dishevelled stack of papers on Travis’ desk. “Any interesting news?”

“Interesting to you, or interesting in general?” Travis responded. “Just more of the same. The Puritans are starting to really root themselves, the Railroad is fighting back. Oh – here’s something – there was a showdown in Goodneighbor, of all places. Somehow, Puritans managed to gain a foothold, recruiting dozens of the ghoul drifters to their cause, but the Railroad swarmed in and snuffed that outpost out.”           

“Holy shit!” Jory exclaimed.

“ _Language_ ,” Travis chided. “But yeah, crazy stuff. Nothing’s been the same there since Hancock stepped down as mayor. The place is just a walled tent city more than anything, these days.”           

Jory nodded. “What else?”           

“That’s it for now. I haven’t seen Nat for a couple days, probably means she hasn’t heard anything new.” Travis turned back to his equipment. “Aren’t you late for work? I vouched for you with Vadim, you know.”          

“Not really, the regulars are just waking up off their tables, now,” Jory muttered. “See you later, Travis.”           

Travis waved but spoke into his microphone, instead. “That tune is the perfect combination of melody and lyrical charm, don’t you think? Next, we’ll charge it up with Bing Crosby’s ‘Pistol Packin’ Mama’.”          

Jory pulled the door shut and sulked down the stairs. Hearing that the Railroad was facing some difficult times caused a pang in his heart, but wasn’t enough to make him go crawling back to them. He brooded the entire walk to the Dugout Inn from the radio trailer. A group of Brotherhood soldiers, day drunk and carrying on, nearly trampled the young man as they burst out of the bar.          

“There he is, Uncle Vadim – I told you he’d show,” Rita purred. She hung off the arm of the grizzled barkeep.         

“Yes, yes, so you did!” he responded boisterously and in his thick accent. “Just in time, too, those Ironheads left quite a mess.” He gestured to a table to Jory’s left, abandoned, and covered in empties.          

“I have a feeling they wouldn’t like it if they heard you calling them that,” Jory replied, drawing up to the bar. He plucked an empty tray and a damp rag from in front of Vadim and got to work. When he returned behind the bar to toss the empties into the bin, Rita had skipped off once more. Jory flopped onto his elbows on the bar, watching the patrons drink, schmooze, and carry on. He sighed.          

“Something on your mind?” Vadim asked, picking up the bar rag and wiping up a spill.         

“Nah. Well, kind of.” Jory watched a couple cross the room towards Yefim. “How do you get…great?”          

“Great?”         

“Yeah. Like, how do you become more than just…that?” Jory gestured towards the bar floor. “More than just them?”         

“Ahh, I see. The young man wishes to be _famous_ , yes? Legendary?”          

“Legendary,” Jory repeated in a dreamy tone. _Yes, that’s the word._           

Vadim playfully slapped Jory upside the head. “Do you mean as the biggest prankster in Diamond City?”          

“Eheh,” Jory chuckled. “I guess Rita told you about today’s…adventure.”           

“She tells me _everything_ , so you remember that.” Vadim clapped Jory on the back, then straightened up. “As for your question – well hello, there! Welcome, welcome!” Vadim’s full attention was turned to a lost-looking new face who happened to have made his way to the bar.          

“Whatever,” Jory mumbled. A group of scavengers was vacating a table on the far side. He picked up a tray and went back to work.           

Jory left the Dugout around 2AM. Vadim insisted he could handle cleaning up after the few straggler patrons, as all the rest had cleared out, or simply, passed out. He hummed a random tune and pat his pocket full of caps rhythmically to the beat of his footsteps as he meandered through the market once more. For decades, the market generally closed after sundown, but in the past handful of months, with the sheer explosion of growth, there were always at least a few vendors open, at all times. The result was there were generally people still hanging around the market no matter what time of day, rather than just the odd Diamond City security patrol. He made his way to his dwelling, a single-room apartment in what was no more than just a common house. It was the closest thing to high density residences that the city could slap together in a short period of time. The city was growing faster than it could handle and single-family dwellings quickly stopped being built in favour of long houses that could shelter several more people at once. These long houses were single level, with the outer walls and roof made of repurposed steel, but the inner walls no more than hung, heavy canvas.

Neighbours who wanted private conversations would conduct them outside and well away from home. Neighbours wanting private _time_ , well…Jory considered it as education. He made his way down the very narrow hallway to the end of the building and slipped into his room. Jory lit his lantern and emptied the caps from his pocket onto his sleeping bag as quietly as possible. He counted fifty two. _Not bad._ He swept the caps off the cover and back into his pocket. Jory snuffed out his lantern, crawled into his sleeping bag, and pulled the cover over his head, falling into a deep sleep.

He was in the middle of a dream, the recurring one with the bright light, muffled voices, and low, mechanical, ambient hum. He could see nothing but the bright light, and couldn’t move any molecule of his body. Sometimes there would be a loud buzzing sound, the light changed from white to angry red, and then there would be several pinpoints of excruciating pain…but sometimes he woke up, first. He was aware of the sensation and sound of his own breathing, the thump of his pulse in his temples. The light turned red and he tensed in anticipation of what was next.

“Jory! Hey, Jory!” Rita called from the end of his sleeping bag and kicked him in the butt.

Jory jostled awake, surprised to see the cover of his sleeping bag illuminated by the sunlight coming in from a hole in the metal wall. He was disoriented, still anticipating the sharp pain that followed the red light. He muttered a string of syllables that made no discernable sense.

“Jory, it’s me, Rita. You gotta get up. Someone is here, for you – well, not _here_ , he’s at the Dugout with my uncles. Come on.”

Jory rubbed his brown eyes and pulled the cover down just enough to expose his face. “I’ll be at work on time today, I promise.” He covered himself back up and clamped his eyes shut.

Rita pulled the cover back down and loomed very close to his face. Her big, red curls reached down to tickle his cheeks. “He said you’d try to blow it off so I have to tell you this: your Geiger counter is back from the shop.”

 _Oh, fucking hell._ He opened his eyes and looked straight into hers. “What did he look like?”

Rita shrugged and sat back on her heels. “I dunno. He’s an older guy, like Uncle Vadim’s age, but he seems younger. Probably because he’s thinner, muscular…” Her voice drifted off for a moment. 

Jory waited.

Rita blushed deeply when she realized her thoughts had wandered away. She cleared her throat, then continued. “Anyway, he didn’t say how he knew you, just that he was an old friend and had to see you right away. And if you refused to come, to tell you, er, what I already said.” She shrugged again. “So, get up.” 

“All right,” Jory grumbled, rubbing his eyes again, and yawning. He slid out of the sleeping bag, then rummaged through a tote of his things to produce a fresh shirt. He quickly changed then gestured for Rita to lead the way. 

It was still early enough that most of the city hadn’t yet begun to stir. The sun was hung in the east, just beginning to rise over the wall. Jory took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. It smelled damp, yet musty, with a slight hint of pack animal dung. Sewage processing remained a challenge for the city, especially now that so many people were in, out, and lived in it.

Rita held the door to the Dugout Inn open for Jory, who winked at her as he walked through. The smell of stale beer and raunchy body odour was carried on the humid stuffiness of the air inside. More than a few of the regulars were still asleep at their tables when he walked in.

“Aha, there he is, the lad of the hour,” Vadim bellowed, gesturing dramatically towards Jory as he approached the bar. “Jory, this man was insistent we fetch you immediately.”

Jory’s attention was pushed towards a middle-aged man perched on a stool just down the bar. He was dressed in road leathers embellished by pieces of mismatched armour, a pair of dark sunglasses, and an ascot that looked completely out of place. “Hey, kid,” the man smiled.

Jory swallowed and offered an iota of a nod. “Deacon.”

“Must be one hell of a special Geiger counter, to make you get up before noon,” Vadim cawed.

“It sure was, eh, Jory? Let’s take a walk.” Deacon stood and nodded towards the door. Suddenly he jerked to a stop, then flicked a cap into the air towards Rita, who caught it, surprised. “Thanks, little lady.” Rita’s face turned the colour of crimson and she took off to cower behind her uncle Vadim. 

The two emerged back into the sunshine. Jory yawned and stretched his arms straight up above his head. “Can you make this quick? I’d like to try and nap some more before I have to come back here for work.” 

Deacon’s head tilted to the side, but didn’t immediately respond. He waved Jory to follow and simply began walking down the alley, his boots clicking along the boardwalk. They made their way to the edge of the lake. The Diamond City Civic Council, a group of five people elected to work together and manage the city after it was decided that trusting a single governmental figurehead was simply irresponsible, had designated the land surrounding the lake remain “recreation area,” thus protecting it from the exponential growth in development. “Watch your step, there, we’ve got a floater.” Deacon pulled Jory aside, who looked down to see a drifter had stumbled in the mud and fallen face-down in the lake and drowned. “We’ll tell security to clean that up, later. Come on, they’re waiting just over there.” 

Jory’s stomach flipped upside-down at the sight of the bloated corpse. He covered his mouth and gave it a wide berth, then trot to join Deacon once more. He glanced up and around Deacon to see they were approaching a group of three adults gathered against the wall, next to the lake. 

Deacon reached down to pat Jory gently on the shoulder. “Don’t be shy. You remember Desdemona, I’m sure?”

Jory followed Deacon’s gaze. One of the figures was most certainly the head of the Railroad, though she hid her hair under a scarf and seemed to be missing a couple of fingers on her smoking hand since he had last seen her. The other two, he didn’t recognize at all. Deacon waved at them. All three turned to look at the approaching two. Desdemona gasped, dropped her cigarette, and in a completely uncharacteristic show of emotion, took three steps towards Jory, bent, and flung her arms around him.

“H-hey, Dez,” Jory choked out, awkwardly.

“When we found out you were still alive, and living here, I had to come and get you, myself.” She pulled away and looked him in the eyes. “How are you doing? Been taking care of yourself?”

“Better than that, Dez. Rumour has it that Jory is quickly climbing the ladder towards Supreme Prankster of All Time.”

 _Can’t Vadim just shut up, sometimes?_ Jory chose to simply answer Desdemona’s question, himself. “I’m fine, I’ve been fine. I have an apartment and a job.”

“He shut down the whole market for a week after he managed to reroute a dozen caravans to march around in circles, making them all think they were lining up for the same thing but in different places. Can you believe that?” Deacon continued.

 “No, but none of us believe anything you say, big D,” replied one of the two strangers. She had Asian facial features and long, dark hair, tied in a ponytail. She wore road leathers matching to Deacon and carried a sniper rifle on her back.

“We tracked you for a couple months, but eventually we had to stop because we couldn’t afford the extra resources with the surge in Puritan activity. I’m so sorry, kid. I wanted to bring you back, sooner.” Desdemona straightened and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. 

Jory blinked, and looked between Deacon and Desdemona. “I… _ran away_. You knew that, didn’t you? I didn’t, like, wander off, or get lost. I left.” He looked back at Deacon. “ _You_ knew that.” 

“Of course we did,” Desdemona replied. “Doesn’t mean we would stop caring about you. We’re your family.”

Jory sighed. “I don’t want to go back. I want to just live my own life, do my own thing. I know you’re fighting pretty hard, and I’m sorry things are, like, not good, but –“

“Our intel had found you here just over six months ago. Both Deacon and Desdemona insisted we just keep tabs on you. They wanted you to have your privacy.” Responded the second figure, a tall, dark skinned man, dressed in plain clothes. He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “If that doesn’t mean something to you…” He trailed off.

It sort of did. Jory blinked and once again looked between Deacon and Desdemona. “What’s going on? Did…did you find out more?”

“The second part’s been a total dead end for a long time, sorry to say,” Deacon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “If we come across something useful, we’ll let you know, but that kind of recon has been on the back burner since this business with the Puritans.”

“So, what? What do you want?” He looked directly into Desdemona’s eyes, knowing she would be direct with him.

“We need your help,” was her short reply. “You’re right that things are not going well for us in the fight, right now. In the last few months, we’ve lost two of our best intelligence agents. Recruitment has slowed significantly, while people are flocking to the Puritans in droves.”

“Some of that is the anti-synths continue to surface with the establishment of a group just for them. The other part is that people, drifters, anyone who thinks a faction can provide a better life, join what they think is the winning team.” The Asian woman spoke once more. 

“I still don’t understand. I’m just a kid, that’s the opposite of helpful.” Jory scanned each of their faces.

“We all know that isn’t true,” Desdemona replied cryptically.

“We wouldn’t set you up to fail, Jory. Besides, what was it you were saying last night, about wanting to be great? Or…legendary?” Deacon smirked.

“Well yeah, I – wait. Were you in the bar last night?” Jory interrupted himself.

“Me? Noooo, no. Though, a close friend of mine named _Fernando_ might have been. I’m also gonna start calling them ‘Ironheads’ from now on.”

“Calling who, what?” Desdemona asked.

 Jory’s face turned bright red, feeling duped by one of Deacon’s disguises. “Whatever. I still don’t see how I can help. You need someone to bus tables at HQ, is that it?”

“You might have been pulling pranks, but what you were really doing was practicing stealth and manipulation,” the other man replied seriously. 

“You’re young, smart, and skilled. You’re our ringer, kid. We always wanted you to come home, but right now…we _need_ you to,” Desdemona added softly.

Jory looked between each of them, once more. Part of him could hardly believe that it was happening. Just a few hours ago, he was crawling into his sleeping bag to prepare for yet another day as a bus boy. Suddenly, he was standing face to face with the head of the Railroad, being collected for their cause. He swallowed. “Well, let me go get my things.” 

Desdemona visibly relaxed. “Excellent. We should move out as soon as possible. Deacon, go with him, and we’ll all meet you outside the gate.”

Deacon motioned for Jory to lead. Instead of turning around, Jory instead continued to follow the path around the lake, to the far side. “Don’t you need your things from your apartment?” 

“Yeah, but my valuable stuff is buried out here. If people know you’re leaving caps in a canvas walled room, they’re just gonna steal it when you’re not there to sleep on it.” Jory deftly hopped between the banks and tiptoed into some brush next to the lake. He took a deliberate path before kneeling down and clearing some rocks aside. He pulled out a jar of caps and a leather sling purse, then stood. 

“You still have that, huh?” Deacon asked softly, referring to the purse.

“Yeah. This is all. My spare clothes and bedroll are in my place. Are you coming?”

Within twenty minutes, Jory had amassed all of his worldly possessions and was making his way towards the main gate. Rita materialized from behind Publick Occurrences and jumped into the middle of the path. Jory and Deacon both stopped. 

“Uh oh,” Deacon breathed.

“Jory, what’s going on? Are you leaving? You weren’t even gonna say goodbye?” Rita’s clear, blue, nearly irresistible eyes were narrowed and angry. She tossed some curls behind her head in a quick, aggravated motion.

Jory looked to Deacon, but the older man merely shook his head. _Not gonna get any help from you, eh?_ He swallowed and looked back to his friend. “It’s…kind of complicated. The leaving. Not the, uh, ‘no goodbye.’”

“Is that so?”

“C’mon, Rita,” Jory sighed. “You’re being unfair. I was gonna come back in and say goodbye to you, you know, without an audience?” He made an elaborate nod towards Deacon.

Rita sniffed. “For real?” 

“Sure.” 

“Listen, Rita,” Deacon purred, suddenly coming to life, “it’s not that he wasn’t going to tell you, but he just couldn’t. Jory’s special ops from a super secret, extra epic organization that we can’t even name for your own, personal safety.” He leaned down and took one of her hands in his, and bumped his sunglasses down just enough to be able to look her in the eye. “We’re basically jeopardizing the whole front by even talking to non-operatives, you know? But I wanted to make sure he got out safe so he could come back here, to you.”

Her attention was completely rapt. “Oh…really?” she breathed, her cheeks becoming flushed.

“You bet. He didn’t want to, you know, bring harm to you and your family with knowing the truth. So, listen. You head back to the Dugout and tell your uncles that Jory had to go home with his ‘cousin’ – that’s me – to get that Geiger counter and visit a sick family member. For the trouble,” Deacon reached over and took Jory’s jar of caps from his arms and placed it in Rita’s, “take these. I’m sure Vadim will understand.” He winked.

Rita nearly swooned. Jory had to bite his tongue, feeling nauseous. “I…I understand! Jory, I’m sorry for my behaviour. Hurry back safely, okay.” She leaned to peck him on the cheek before scampering off, yet again.

Jory watched her retreat, feeling far more upset about his lost caps. When she was totally out of sight, he turned and grabbed Deacon by the arm. “What the hell, dude?! Those were my life’s savings!”

“Phbbt. A whole six months of caps, you mean? You don’t need them, now, anyways. We both know Dez is gonna coddle you to the point of smothering.” 

Jory frowned. “I’m not a baby.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what?”

Deacon clapped him on the back and made to ascend the walkway towards the exit. “Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older. Now, come on. They’re waiting.”


	2. Chapter 2

Desdemona and the other two Railroad agents were standing just to the right of the main gate, waiting for Deacon and Jory. “Got everything?”

Jory nodded. “We all going together, then?”

“We are. We’re heading back to HQ so we might as well just go together.” Desdemona gestured first to the Asian woman, and then the tall, African-American man. “This is Shadow, and Tripwire.”

“Jory,” he said, though he was certain they all knew that, already.

“Not anymore,” Deacon grinned. The group started walking from the gates of Diamond City and into the ruined streets of the Fens. “I’ve got the perfect code name for you, which you’ll have to use as an active agent and all.”

“What is it?” Jory found himself equally excited and terrified. A secret alias name felt like such a simple way to start the path towards stardom.

Deacon spread his hands towards the sky. “ _Microchip._ ”

Jory was instantly agitated. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Seems insensitive, Deacon, even by your standards,” Desdemona added.

“I admit it carries a bit of a double entendre, but for the most part it’s to reflect your, well, non-adult stature _and_ being an important piece of the puzzle, despite your minute size.” Deacon looked between the rest of them as they continued to walk. “No? Come on, you’re gonna tell me that’s not perfect?”

“Did I miss something?” Tripwire interjected. “Are you another child-synth?”

Jory looked up to Desdemona, who nodded. He took a breath. “My sister and I, we escaped the Institute during the evacuation call, before the reactor blew. At some point, I was part of an experiment to make kids into semi-synths. My body, my brain, has artificial components to it. Where they are, or what they do, I don’t know. I…think the experiment was ongoing.”

“Oh, ‘microchip,’ I get it, now,” Shadow giggled. Desdemona glowered at her.

“They took a kid from the surface for _experiments_?” Tripwire voiced his thought out loud.

“Ahh…no. I was born there.” Jory offered nothing more.

“Damn. They didn’t have any limits on who they’d exploit, did they?”

“And before we talk about this any further,” Desdemona piped up, “Jory’s unique condition is _not_ common knowledge. Do you understand?” She directed her words towards both Shadow and Tripwire.

“Completely,” Tripwire replied. Shadow nodded.

“Good.” Desdemona glanced back down at Jory and her expression softened. Jory avoided eye contact and blushed. She looked back to Tripwire and Shadow. “With the Institute gone, there is no simple way to access any of their remaining records. Carrington speculates they were trying to get around the obvious fact that synths don’t age, which would have been their main stumbling block to rolling out a full set of child synths onto the surface.”

Everyone fell quiet for a moment. Jory felt particularly awkward. One of the main reasons he left the Railroad was he just didn’t want people to pity him anymore – especially Desdemona – and he wanted a chance to make his own life, just like any other thirteen year old kid scraping their way through the wasteland. The Railroad had made it their job to protect him, at all costs, from persecution or worse, but he never fully understood why. He wasn’t a synth who thought he was, or wanted to be, human. He was just a kid with extra hardware, and hardware he didn’t know how to use, at that.

“Deacon, you’re on point. Shadow, take the six. Let’s hope it’s just a nice walk in the sunshine, shall we?” Desdemona instructed. She looked down at Jory one more time. “Stay close.”

Jory nodded miserably. He just wanted to go back to bed – or, better, wake up and find out this was a very elaborate dream.

They were bearing generally to the north east. Jory had been brooding, and it wasn’t until they were crossing a bridge that he realized they weren’t headed towards the Old North Church. In fact, they’d passed it entirely. “Hey, where are we going?”

“The new _casa_ , big guy. The family grew out of the old digs and we had to upgrade,” purred Deacon.

“What he means is, we’re at war, and had to house an army,” Tripwire clarified.

The group continued relatively unhindered for the rest of their journey. It was early afternoon by the time they arrived at the National Guard Training Yard. The Railroad had refurbished some of its outer fortifications, repurposed the turrets, and of course, added some guard towers of its own.

“You guys aren’t really hiding anymore, are you?” Jory breathed, taking in the gravity of it all. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, while trainees and seasoned agents alike took target practice around the other side. Armour and weapons crafting stations both had queues of people waiting to fix or fabricate items. Desdemona led them to the doors of the main building, featuring two standing guards. One nodded at them and pushed a door open for them to enter.

The interior did not seem to have fared as well as the exterior. It looked as though the entire upper floor had collapsed onto the main and had stayed that way for centuries, prior to the Railroad taking the place over. Jory could see where the original building ended, and the Railroad had bolstered some of the structure, building new interior walls and having cleared out the majority of the large debris. It smelled slightly unpleasant, like a mixture of sweat, dust, and wet paint.

“Instructions, ma’am?” prompted Shadow, knocking road dust off her boots against the floor.

“Good work today, you and Tripwire, both. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning to debrief Jo – _Microchip_ on the details of his mission. You’re off duty and dismissed,” Desdemona replied.

“Eh? Ehhhh? See, Dez, it’s the perfect moniker for half-pint,” Deacon gloated.

Desdemona ignored his comment. “Deacon, I’d like you to take him around to get oriented with the facility and settled in to his bunk.” Finally, she turned to Jory. “Get settled, get comfortable. You’ll have free time for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, the real work begins.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jory nodded.

“Good. Deacon, I’ll expect you back in the war room when you’re –“

“What is _that_ doing back here?” Tinker Tom exclaimed, having materialized seemingly out of nowhere, and interrupting Desdemona mid-sentence. Several other agents standing around turned to look at the sudden outburst.

“Tom, watch your tone,” Desdemona replied, firmly.

“Ohhhhh man, Dez, I was not prepared for this. I haven’t installed signal blockers or anything, you didn’t tell me you were bringing that thing back into our ranks, this is not good, this is _not good_!” Tom continued to ramble, making a scene. Some of the other agents had gone back to their business while a few remained staring.

“Tom! Control yourself!”

“You’re being totally unfair,” Deacon piped up. “Microchip can’t be any more or less dangerous than a full blown synth. We all know that.”

“Yes, he can, yes he sure can!” Tom babbled.

“My office. Now,” Desdemona ordered. Tom turned, muttering, and Desdemona followed. They entered a room at the back of the foyer and shut the door. The other agents had all gone back to their business with hardly a reaction.

“You okay?” Deacon asked. Jory shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess. I never realized Tom hated me that much,” Jory muttered.

“He doesn’t hate you, exactly.” Deacon tousled Jory’s dark brown hair. Jory swat at him, but Deacon had already retracted his hand. “He just feels unsettled because he didn’t account for someone like you. He felt like he knew everything he could expect from synths. None of us knew they were…well…you know.”

_All too well._ “You gonna show me around, then?”

Deacon re-assumed his usual pathological liar demeanour. He spread his arms and gestured around the room. “Welcome to the main building’s interior, the most refurbished building of the entire complex. As you can see, we’ve made major changes to the structural integrity of the upper floor, by which I mean, we added walls. Definitely going to crank the re-sale value of the place.” They passed a ruined bathroom, its ceramic fixtures completely in pieces. “Can’t _wait_ to see what they do with that one.” Deacon led them towards the stairwell on the left, opposite from Desdemona’s office. They could hear her and Tom’s raised voices, but couldn’t make out specific words. Deacon compensated by stomping up the stairs.

It took a full forty-five minutes for Deacon to take Jory through the entire facility, and even that was by taking a quick pause at every building, section, and feature. Despite the months he had spent with the Railroad previously, Jory only recognized a few people. The tour finished at the barracks, which seemed to have been in even worse condition than the main administrative building. Planks of wood and repurposed sheet metal had been hammered into each of the floors, covering up huge gaps and making the building useable once more. They climbed up to the top floor, wound down the hallway to the end, and into a small, former corner office that contained a small bed and a dresser.

“Just for you, kid. A whole room. The rest of the troops gotta share the barracks, like sardines in a can.”

Jory sighed. “I don’t want so much special treatment, Deacon, why doesn’t Desdemona _get_ that?” He opened his arms and dropped his affairs unceremoniously onto the floor.

“Actually, it’s not even really about special treatment, in this case. It’s just not, ah, _appropriate_ , to make a kid have to share a big open room with adults, or vice-versa. The big kids would have some complaints about that. See? Doesn’t sound so special, now, does it?” Deacon bounced on the bed. A teddy bear tumbled off the pillow to land face-first onto the floor.

Jory knelt to pick it up. “Ugh, a teddy bear? I’m _not_ a _baby_!” He threw it into the corner on the other side of the room, a little harder than he had intended. The plastic nose and eyes made a hollow click against the concrete wall before it landed onto the floor.

Deacon stood, then picked up the bear. He dusted it off and sat it onto the dresser. “I know I’m not the most serious guy, but I don’t think this was left to imply you’re a baby. I think someone wanted you to know you are cared for, and welcomed back.”

Jory immediately felt guilty. Desdemona was a little too much for him, most of the time, but she truly cared. He had been with the Railroad long enough to have heard some of the gruesome stories the agents brought back, about synths that were hunted, tortured, and murdered in horrible ways. He himself could face that kind of persecution, if any lay person on the outside found out about his modifications.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“Trust me, after tomorrow, you won’t ever think any of us think of you as a baby.”

“Trust _you?_ ” Jory grinned.

“My work here is done!” Deacon declared, smiling and dusting his hands. “I better go meet Dez. You okay to settle in on your own?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know. Later, kid.” Deacon left the room and pulled the door shut behind him. Jory stepped towards the window and took a look outside. He studied the training yard grounds, and beyond. Things hadn’t slowed down out there at all since they had arrived. He watched agents diligently sew patches on worn armour, hammer out a new silencer barrel for a pistol, run obstacles, and practice shooting. He imagined himself as one of them, sewing lead panels into a jacket, talking about the hiccups of the last mission, and speculating on details of the next.

Deacon’s words from early that morning rang through his memory, once more. _“What was it you were saying, about wanting to be great? Or, legendary?”_ Jory frowned, watching the agents in the yard. _Desdemona said there’d be a debrief, tomorrow. Not training._ He scanned the faces of those he could see from the third floor of the barracks. None appeared younger than seventeen, or eighteen. They weren’t really actively recruiting kids. _A special job, for special me. Great._ Jory yawned, suddenly feeling very sleepy. He pulled his shoes and socks off, then crawled under the scratchy blanket on the bed. After a few moments, he stood up, retrieved the teddy bear, and went back under the covers.

The next morning, Jory made his way through the complex, back to the administration building, and to the war room. He had spent most of the previous day and night sleeping or brooding, taking trips to the outhouse as required and one stop at the mess hall for a snack overnight. He felt rested, and a little anxious. It was the day the Railroad would assign him his mission, his purpose. He would be cast out into the world, alone, under high stakes, to succeed for the greater good, or die trying.

Jory smiled to himself. He was definitely jazzed. He nodded to one of the posted guards and walked into the administrative building, through the lobby, then up the stairs to the war room. Shadow and Desdemona were already there, sipping what Jory assumed was steaming coffee from mugs.

“Good morning, Microchip. I hope you rested well,” Desdemona greeted him. The soft, emotional person from the day before was far below the surface. Jory was fine with that.

“Desdemona. Hi, Shadow.”

“Microchip,” Shadow acknowledged.

“Who else are we waiting for?” Jory asked, eager to begin his briefing. He drew up to the table featuring Desdemona’s large map of the Commonwealth, like she had set up before within the Old North Church basement. It featured markers of different types, colours, and sizes, but it seemed only Desdemona really knew what any of them represented.

He tried to make it seem like he was studying the map, himself, when he had no idea how to even read one. An arm reached around him from behind to point to a totally different spot on the map than he was looking. “I knew this map was missing something: the cartoon finger pointing You Are Here.” Deacon nudged a marker, an ancient souvenir magnet that was the shape of a kitten face.

Jory didn’t know what embarrassed him more, the fact he was so obviously looking at the wrong place on the map, or that his person was represented by a marker in the shape of a cat. He didn’t want to be teased further, so he didn’t comment on it. “Oh. Thanks, Deacon,” he replied instead, then stepped away from the table.

Desdemona lit a cigarette and took a puff. “Tripwire and Tinker Tom should be here, shortly.”

“I heard about what happened with Tom, yesterday. Sorry he said that stuff to you. He…well, none of the rest of us, feel that way, anyways,” Shadow offered.

“It’s okay, I’m just different than what he’s used to, and he doesn’t really know what to make of me.”

“That’s…mature of you,” Desdemona responded, sounding impressed. Deacon flashed him a covert thumbs-up. The door popped open and in walked Tripwire, who then held the door open for Tinker Tom, clambering into the room with his arms full of assorted tech. “Excellent, we’re all here, and pretty close to on time.” She turned and snuffed her cigarette out in the ashtray behind her. “There’s coffee, if any of the rest of you are interested.”

“Thanks,” Tripwire replied. He crossed the room and served himself a cup. Jory stood awkwardly, wondering what he was supposed to do, and practically buzzing with excitement.

“Take it away, Dez,” Deacon prompted. He had elected to stand against the wall, off to the side.

Desdemona took a breath. “Well, let’s start from the beginning. A lot of the current situation began with the destruction of the Institute. Our faction had devoted decades to the liberation of synths, helping shuttle them out of the Commonwealth, or access memory wipes, or both, depending on their preferences or what was the best course of action based on the political climate.”

Jory nodded.

“The destruction of the Institute resulted in an unexpected mixed result from the greater Commonwealth. Most people welcomed it, seeing it as the removal of the boogeyman, and the threat of synth aggression. They no longer had to live in fear of the thought that the Institute could just teleport you from your home, one night, and replace you with a synth duplicate. That part of the terror was gone.”

Jory nodded again. It was heartbreaking for him to hear that the Institute, where he had been born and raised, had such a detrimental influence on the world above.

“Unfortunately, though, attitudes towards synths remained the same. The population at large were still terrified that not only did some synths remain operating on the surface, but also that several likely evacuated before the detonation. The Gen 1s and 2s can be spotted a mile away, but Gen 3s…well. Many managed to escape, and many of those still were rescued from dangerous places by our agents in the field, for several weeks after the detonation.

“But, peace would not prevail. Synths and likely, innocent humans, were kidnapped, beaten, murdered, or worse, by a terrified populace who still believed all synths are a threat. Hell, the Brotherhood continues to send patrols out for that purpose.”

A disgruntled murmur rippled through the room. Desdemona raised her hand for silence, before continuing.

“About a year ago, shortly after you joined us the first time, Microchip, our best intelligence is that a pair of bored wastelander brothers adopted the title ‘Puritans,’ from ancient history, and started stalking out and murdering synths.”

“It’s an historical abomination. That term definitely does not mean what they are making it mean. Probably only started using it because it sounded like ‘pure,’” Tripwire added bitterly.

“Regardless,” Desdemona went on, “the title stuck. Over time, other, less intelligent and bigoted residents of the wasteland began to feel drawn to the Puritans, feeling as though they could relate to what they stood for. In the span of two months, they grew from being two hooligans to a gang of a few dozen people, and the growth didn’t stop.

“They started giving a voice to the feelings people had been harbouring for a long time, exploiting the irrational fear and turning it into a recruitment tool. Their ranks grew, and so did their viciousness. Soon, they had become our greatest adversary, taking that place from the Brotherhood of Steel and demoting the latter to being just a pain in the ass.” She paused, taking a sip of her coffee. “We could no longer continue to operate while they made concerted efforts to waylay our activities. Just before you left, we had scouted out this location, and immediately began pouring resources into refurbishing it so that we could begin furnishing an army.”

“Whoa. You were planning this war before I left? I had no idea,” Jory breathed.

“Yes, but once you left, you showed us you’re intelligent, self sufficient, and responsible. During that time, our agents have been fighting tooth and nail to keep the Puritans from taking too much ground. They started to become very organized, and at the same time, very dangerous.” Desdemona lit up another cigarette. “They started ambushing our checkpoints, studying and following our caravans. We began losing secured areas and safehouses, like before the end of the Institute.”

“Those two intelligence agents we lost, that you heard about yesterday? They were followed from their surveillance points and killed as they took a rest at a safehouse.” It was Deacon’s turn to add to the discussion. “One of them managed to pass on their findings into a dead drop before being murdered. It was the edge we needed to snuff out the secret outpost they’d started setting up in Goodneighbor. We hope it set them back. They’re starting to feel invincible.”

“We can use that, though, right? Get in there now that they think they’re becoming unstoppable, maybe find a way to turn the leaders against each other?” Jory scanned each of the faces in the room.

Deacon spread his hands, grinning. “The kid’s a natural.”

“You’re right, that we’re sending you in as our agent on the inside. You’ll need a cover story and an identity, both of which you’ll have to develop on your own and not tell the rest of us what they are. It’s…safer for all of us, that way,” Desdemona continued.

Jory frowned. “How come?”

Tom took that one. “This is top-secret mission type stuff, kid, super spy junk, covert ops, the whole deal. Those Puritan murderers manage to get a hold of any of us and start a line of questioning about your cover story and we maintain plausible deniability.” He was gesturing wildly with his hands.

“It means we can’t blow your cover. It maintains the integrity of your mission,” Shadow clarified, quietly.

“Oh.” Jory fell silent. The thought of anyone in that room, especially Desdemona, being captured and tortured for questioning over him, didn’t make him feel very good at all.

“Chin up,” Desdemona smiled at him warmly, “that’s the worst case scenario. We know you won’t fail.”

“So, what’s my mission, specifically? What do you need me to do?”

“The short answer is, we need information. Their plans, their supply hoards, their numbers, everything. We have lost the advantage of numbers and need to start cutting off their access to things they need, like food and ammunition.”

“You’re going to spend a week cycling through training with all of us standing in this room, right now,” Tripwire picked up the discussion. “We’ll each pass on different skills, things you’ll need to know, and things we hope you won’t need to use.”

“Stuff like where and how to use a dead drop. And, a gun,” chirped Deacon.

Jory swallowed a lump in his throat. The thought of using a gun against a live person terrified him. He turned the attention to the pile of tech that had been brought in by Tinker Tom by way of changing the subject. “What about that stuff?”

“What _is_ all that crap, Tom?” Tripwire seconded.

“Crap? _Crap_?! I threw together this beauty of a device to see if our friend Microchip here is sending encrypted signals out into the ether, _that’s_ what it is.” Tom immediately pounced onto his metallic collection and started plugging cables into different components. “He could be a direct uplink to some kind of Institute monitoring station that wasn’t within the ruins itself, sending them all kinds of information, things he hears, things he sees.”

“You don’t know what kinds of information he could be transmitting?” Deacon pressed.

“Well no, not exactly, that’s how they’re winning, don’t you get it? They’re taking his brainwaves and downloading them and reading them.” Tom hardly paused in his fidgeting with his apparatus.

“So not only do you _not_ know what he could be transmitting, you don’t know how, either? So how do you even know what you’re looking for, or if and when you find it?”

Tom froze. Shadow bit her lip to keep from giggling. Tom sniffed, and shrugged. “Okay, fine, you make a fair point. I have a little more work to do.” He swept the apparatus into his arms and made eye contact with Jory as he walked towards the door. “I’m gonna scan you before you leave, though, that much is a promise.”

“Bye, Tom,” Desdemona dismissed. She turned her attention back to the rest of the adults in the room. “I think that concludes the briefing. Did I miss anything?” A pause. No one replied. “Good. Your training will officially being tomorrow, Microchip. Today, you need to see Doc Carrington to make sure you’re fit for active duty.”

“Okay,” Jory conceded.

“The rest of you, start preparing how you’re going to spend the rest of the week helping train our newest agent. Weed out the essential elements as best you can. Time is ticking, and we need to start getting some footing back from those bigots.” Desdemona snuffed out her second cigarette and gestured to the door. “You’re all dismissed.”


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the dismissal, Deacon and Tripwire remained behind with Desdemona as Jory left the war room with Shadow.   Her feet hardly made any sound as she descended the concrete staircase. Jory studied her movements, and tried to emulate it as best he could. No matter what, he felt like an elephant trying to do ballet compared to Shadow’s near-silent grace. _Maybe I just need more practice._  

Jory stepped into the sunlight and relished the warmth on his face. He took a deep breath of the morning air, then crossed the complex to the small, outlying building that had been set up as a medical facility. To his surprise, there was a line stretching out the door. There seemed to be a group of agent trainees nursing bullet wounds.

“What happened to you guys?” Jory asked as he took his place at the end of the line.

“Drill gone wrong. One of the senior trainers forgot to reset a failsafe on a turret they use to train us on disabling them, and now we _all_ know what happens when you screw up and get locked out of the terminal,” the trainee on the end explained. He winced and held his sides. Blood stains stretched out beneath his hands.

“Sheesh.” _Let’s add, do not tangle with turrets, to the list._ “Tough break,” he added. Jory leaned against the wall and watched the clouds float through the sky. The line moved slowly, but steadily. It seemed that an operating room had been set up and the Doc merely had to repeat the same procedure, just a dozen times or so.

He yawned, feeling bored. Standing in line was not how he hoped to spend most of the rest of his last day of being plain old Jory. Since his visit to the mess hall the night before, his mind was buzzing with a handful of different pranks to set up on the unsuspecting agents and trainees. He wanted to plant at least a couple before he had to be a serious agent.

“Well, anyways, what’s your story?” the trainee asked out of nowhere. “You some agent’s kid, or relative, or something?”

“Huh? Who, me? Oh yeah, my dad’s a high level sergeant on this base. Sergeant Steppheim? You probably know him, actually. He runs the drills.” Jory put on his most casual tone of voice and idly picked at his nails.

The trainee blinked. “Sorry, Sergeant who?”

“Steppheim. I’ve heard I look a lot like him? He’s just, well, a lot older than I am, obviously. He left me a note to pick up his prescription, which is why I’m here.”

“Like, your dad is a trainer agent for the Railroad, you mean? We don’t have titles like the old military.”

“No, my dad doesn’t drive a train, he’s a drill sergeant, didn’t I just say that?”

The trainee blinked again. “What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?”

“Hey! Pay attention, knuckleheads! You’re holding up the line,” barked a woman in a lab coat, who was hanging out the door. “Murdock, you’re the last one of your company, get in here now or forever hold your peace. Or, injuries. Whatever.”

The man addressed as Murdock gave Jory one last confused look before shuffling as quickly as his injuries would allow into the building. Jory followed but was stopped at the door.

“What’s your emergency?” the woman demanded. Her lab coat sported fresh blood stains, likely from tending to the previous line up of injured trainees. Her eyes were intense, indigo coloured, and narrowed.

“Ah, no emergency, ma’am, but I have an appointment,” Jory replied.

“Oh really? For what?”

Something about her tone and facial expression killed any inclination that Jory might have had to try and prank the doctor’s assistant. “Desdemona sent me, she said the doctor was to make sure I am fit for the field. I can come back later, if you want.”

“Desdemona? Oh!” Her eyes lit up and her expression brightened. “Yes, of course. You must be Microchip.” She put her hand onto the back of his shoulder and guided him into the building. “Just have a seat and I’ll make sure Doc Carrington sees you as soon as he can. This failed turret assignment has made for an interesting morning.”

“Does it happen a lot?”

“Not a _lot_ , but since we started training lay people to handle live weapons, it’s not uncommon that an entire group end up hurt because a single person forgot the difference between a trigger and a safety.”

“I’ll make sure to avoid the training grounds,” Jory replied, as he flopped into the ancient chair.

“That sounds smart. I’m Belinda, by the way.” She stretched out her hand towards him.

“Nice to meet you,” he shook. “And yes, I’m Microchip.” Jory worried the introduction sounded a little too fabricated. He wasn’t at all used to using his code name.

Belinda smirked. “Right. Well, anyways, Carrington will see you as soon as the minor surgery is all finished and cleaned up. Shouldn’t be too long.”

Famous last words. It was at least another hour before Jory was called in to see the doctor. He’d managed to build a decent tower out of the recovered pre-war magazines that were strewn about the waiting room just for something to do.

“Just hit the button for sub-floor one,” Belinda directed, having led Jory down a short flight of stairs, through a room full of shelves housing basic first aid supplies and a single examination table, to an elevator.

“Wow. This place is way bigger than it seems on the outside,” Jory replied, hitting the call button for the elevator.

“That’s what they all say,” Belinda sang. “See you in a bit.” She turned and ascended the stairs back to the main waiting room. The whirring of the moving elevator could be heard behind its doors. It stopped, and the doors opened with a chime. Jory entered and hit the button as he had been instructed, feeling anxious. Not much about the world on the surface rattled him, despite having been raised in veritable technological luxury within the confines of the Institute. For the most part, he thought the wasteland was gritty, and challenging, and the more time he spent above ground, the more he wondered why it took so long for the Institute to come crashing down. They were so sheltered, and so clueless, they were bound to implode, eventually.

The exception was a pre-war elevator. Something about them made him feel his mortality like nothing else. The ride was never smooth. The lighting was always poor. Everything rattled, from the doors opening and closing, to the walls as it moved, and if he was really lucky, the automated voice was corrupted beyond repair and would just buzz something creepy at him rather than announce the floor number.

Jory braced himself against the left wall, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing. Fear began to clutch his stomach. He swallowed and refocused on the sound and sensation of his breaths: in, then out. In, then out.

The elevator bumped to a stop. The doors squeaked open and Jory all but flung himself out and into the receiving room. One of the medical assistants was putting used, bloodied linens into a basket on the side of the room. He looked up at the arrival of the elevator. “Oh, hey. You’re the next patient? The doctor is ready for you, just go on in.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, directing Jory’s attention to the door straight ahead of him. The receiving room seemed to branch off into several small examination rooms, the majority of which were used to operate on the trainees and in the process of being stripped down by the assistant.

“Thanks,” Jory squeaked, his heart rate still elevated from his ride on the elevator. He scurried into the office.

Doctor Carrington was huddled over a wash basin, scrubbing his skin of any residual blood or bacteria from the hours of surgery he had performed. He looked over his shoulder, then resumed his wash. “Close the door. I just need to dry off.” Jory did as instructed, then stood in the room, awkwardly. Carrington towelled off and turned fully to regard the teenager. “You’ve grown,” he observed.

Jory nodded but said nothing. What does a person say to that, really? ‘Thank you’?

“Sit up on the examination table. This shouldn’t take long.” Carrington turned back to the counter and picked up a stethoscope, while Jory climbed up onto the ancient equipment. Carrington approached and merely looked over Jory, at first. Jory tried not to fidget. Carrington seemed to have aged years since he had been seen last, even though it had only been six or seven months. His face featured deeper wrinkles around his eyes, and his black hair was distinctly salt-and-pepper. Finally, he spoke, sounding concerned. “Are you all right? You seem to be sweating.”

“Huh? Oh – I’m fine. I…don’t like elevators,” Jory mumbled in response.

Carrington raised an eyebrow. He gestured for Jory to lift his shirt, then placed the stethoscope onto his chest. “Take a deep breath in, then out. Good. One more time, in…then out.” He nodded, then removed the stethoscope. Jory let his shirt fall. Carrington proceeded with the standard rigmarole of checking Jory’s blood pressure, shining a light down his throat with a tongue depressor, and feeling Jory’s lymph nodes. Carrington plunked himself onto a stool next to the counter and tossed the stethoscope into a container next to the sink, letting out a long breath. “Physically, you look and sound as healthy as any thirteen-year-old. Whether or not that means you’re suitable for the field, well, who can say? We don’t exactly have a section for that in the field medic textbook.”

“Ah, okay,” Jory replied, sounding as confused as he felt.

Carrington frowned deeper. “I remember you as being a sharp kid. You haven’t figured out that Desdemona really sent you here to…talk?”

Jory blinked, truly surprised. “Talk? About…what?”

They both stared at each other for a moment.

“…wait. Talk about… _changes_?” Jory broke the silence. His face turned bright red. “We don’t have to talk about that. I learned about that stuff, already, honestly.” He wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing, recalling all kinds of uncomfortable information about puberty from his educational classes in the Institute, or the fact that Desdemona thought he would want to talk about it.

Carrington barked out a harsh, dry laugh, the likes of which Jory had never heard from the man, before. “Oh, I wish! It’s so much easier to just talk about that kind of stuff, even if you don’t want to hear it.” He wiped a tear from his eye before continuing. “No, she wanted us to have an honest talk. You see, sometimes, we found synths had a hard time adjusting to life on the surface. Things like the sky, for example, really confused them. While they had endured a life of trauma working as slaves for the Institute, they came to learn very quickly that life on the surface came with its own set of traumas.” He tented his fingers, choosing his words deliberately.

“We talked about that stuff, before, right? About leaving my home, losing my sister.” Jory shrugged. “All that’s still the same. I miss her, but I can’t bring her back, and the sky is really cool. I don’t even get sunburned so easily, anymore.”

The doctor nodded. “Perhaps it’s a gift of the resilience of youth, that you seem to have acclimated to the surface so quickly and easily. Some synths take years to do so. That is, the ones who elect not to have the…procedure.”

“Yeah. I’m not a synth, though. Synths were…strict. They had specific programming.” Jory’s voice took on a dreamy tone. “Impossible to prank…”

Carrington did not immediately reply. “Hm,” he finally hummed, “I suppose I never considered that thought, before. You’re young _and_ organic. It’s in our nature to evolve, and you’re at the prime to be able to do so.” He paused again. Next he spoke, he changed the subject. “Desdemona knows you will do whatever she asks of you. I mean, you’re here right now, aren’t you?”

Jory shifted his gaze but did not reply.

Carrington leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Jory – sorry, _Microchip_ – what you’re about to undertake is quite significant. We’ve never had such a young…person in a covert operation before.” He rubbed his brow, seemingly trying to figure out what to say next. “Look. I personally don’t agree with sending you in there. I think you’re too immature – now, now, don’t look so offended, you’re only thirteen, that’s all I meant – and there are just too many risks. If you get caught, they are unlikely to spare your life. If they find out you are in a way part synth, they could do worse things to you than outright kill you.” Carrington swallowed, then locked eyes with Jory. His expression was of stone. “You don’t have to do this, just because Desdemona assigned it to you. If you tell me, right now, you’d rather walk away from the Railroad for good, she’d never know you declined.”

“What?” Jory blinked.

“I’d cover for you. I’d tell Desdemona that you simply wouldn’t be able to handle the physical or emotional stresses of being out in the field -- hell, having to infiltrate the very enemy -- on your own. She’d have to heed my recommendation or risk sending you directly to your death.”

“But, death is always a risk out there.”

“That’s not my point. We’re all going to die, some day. If I tell her you can’t take the mission, she’d have to send you out there knowing she’s essentially sending a lamb to the slaughter.”

Jory bristled. He wasn’t sure if Carrington was trying to talk him out of taking the mission out of genuine care, or his own conscience. A large part of him wanted to tell Carrington where to stick it, to be so blunt with the idea that he simply couldn’t handle the job based on his age. However, he also saw exactly what it could be: an out. This would be the only chance that he could walk away, no other questions asked. He could go back to Diamond City, back to his life.

_My life of bussing tables and mopping puke off the Dugout floor for fifty caps a day. Or, I could take this opportunity being given to me, a chance to help the Railroad in their war, a chance to make my mark on history._

Jory took a slow breath in, then out. “Thanks, Doctor Carrington. I appreciate that you are trying to look out for me. Truth is…I really don’t have anything else going for me, right now. I don’t have any other family, any other home than the Railroad. Maybe Desdemona shouldn’t have asked me to take this mission, because I’m young, because I’m _altered_ , but…” He trailed off, tapping his feet together and staring at the floor.

Carrington sighed. He stood from his chair, approached the counter, and began to make some notes in a file. “Well, Microchip. You’re cleared for duty.” He gave him a sidelong glance. “Let’s hope you’re really as smart as you are brave.”

It was well past mid-afternoon by the time Jory emerged from the clinic building and wandered off into the training yard grounds once more. He wandered up a hill on the western edge of the grounds, and stretched out onto the earth, hands behind his head, staring up at the sky. He watched the banks of clouds just hang there, barely moving. Jory took a deep breath, then exhaled, his mind heavy with a storm of thoughts. The seed of doubt had been planted, and he didn’t like it.

_Why did he have to say that stuff? Why couldn’t he have just listened to my heartbeat and put me on a scale and told me I was fine? Why am I even thinking that he could be right?_

There was a slight rustling from behind his head.

“Don’t you have something else to do, Deacon? I thought you were, you know, a big deal around here.” Jory had tried to sound teasing, but his voice came out stern.

“Doc tried to talk you out of it, huh?” Deacon lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs at his ankles and wrapping his elbows around his knees.

“Did you know he would?”

“I suspected. You made an impact on many of us, here. None of us want to see you get hurt, especially not on a mission you aren’t wilfully taking.”

Jory closed his eyes. “He was leaning on me pretty hard. I may have disappointed him by saying I wanted to do it.”

“Doc Carrington, disappointed? Now you’re _definitely_ part of the family, kid.”

“Heh.”

The two fell quiet. The din of practice gunfire, the clatter of the workbenches, and assorted voices in far away conversations drifted through the air.

“Did Desdemona put him up to it?” Jory asked quietly, breaking their silence.

“Desdemona is Queen Bee because she makes the right decisions, not the nice ones,” Deacon replied with no hesitation. “She sees your potential and what you could do for the organization, and values that, just as much as she cares about you. How do you think I managed to keep the job for this long?”

“You didn’t die?”

Deacon laughed. “Yeah, that, too.”

Jory opened his eyes and turned his gaze towards Deacon. “Is that all you wanted?”

“Nope.” Deacon shifted just enough to be able to dig into his pocket. He pulled out a small, braided string bracelet, featuring mismatched, plastic beads, threaded through it. Jory gasped, flung himself upright, and snatched the item from Deacon’s hand.

“Where did you find this how did you get this?” Jory’s words were a babbling flow.

“You’re welcome,” Deacon smirked. “To answer your question…when you ran away, I went out to look for you, at first. I thought you might have returned to the place you were zapped onto the surface, that you might have gone back to try and find your sister. The trail was cold, but I started tracking your sister as best I could.”

Jory’s breath was caught in his throat. “And?”

“A little ways away, I found that bracelet, a couple bloated, dead mole rats, and evidence of heavy rains. I couldn’t track her any further, and there were definitely no signs of you.” Deacon reached over to poke Jory in the arm. “I know now that you didn’t go in that direction at all.”

“She might still be alive?”

“Might be.” Deacon stretched his legs out, his knees popping loudly. “Dez doesn’t know I went looking for you, though, okay? She sent a different agent after you. I was on some other recon mission – apparently, we were about to be part of some kind of full scale war – so my absence was expected.”

Jory nodded, not really paying attention. He was fixated on studying the bracelet he had made for her, so many years ago. It was so familiar, yet he felt like he was looking at it for the first time.

They had done the evacuation drills twice a year since before he could remember, so when the call went out, late that night a year and a half ago, they jumped out of their beds and rushed to the relay bay as they had rehearsed so many times. No sign of their parents, but they were working nights at that point. They knew the procedure: get to the relay, and regroup on the surface. “Grab my bag, Jo,” Mirabel had directed him before they left their quarters for the last time in their lives.

It had been chaos. There were sounds of fighting all through the atrium and in the labs. Mirabel had gripped his wrist so tightly while pulling him through the hallways, she ended up leaving a bruise. So much of that escape was a blur. They rushed past damaged synths and injured people alike, and more than a few dead. The lights were flickering and it was darker than it had ever been inside the Institute. He saw classmates, parents of friends, his favourite caretaker synths, all of them yelling, fighting, some of them bleeding and crying, and every time he hesitated, Mirabel hauled him past, keeping their route true. Foreign smells assaulted his nostrils, smells of metal, burning plastic, ozone, blood. The evacuation relays were sending people out in groups, usually families.

“We made it,” she had smiled at him, as they stood in that oddly lit pod. “We’re getting out.”

Jory’s next memory would be waking up on a gurney in the basement of the Old North Church, surrounded by the Railroad, and no one having any idea he had left the Institute with someone else.

“Thank you,” Jory said, gently tucking the bracelet into his pocket. “Really. Just…thanks.”

“For what?” Deacon stood and dusted off his britches. “All I did was come to remind you that your crash course in black ops super spy agent stuff starts first thing in the morning.” He offered a cheeky wave and descended the hill.

Jory shook his head and laid back down, tracing the shapes of the clouds with his finger.


	4. Chapter 4

Jory slept very poorly that night. He laid on his cot, his arms crossed on his chest, Mirabel’s bracelet clutched in his hands. He ran his fingers up and down the length of it, studying every strand, every contour of every bead, every atom of it. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what his sister even looked like, tried to imagine what she _could_ look like, after a year and a half of hard living on the surface.

On top of his emotional restlessness, more than a few of the adults hit the bottle pretty deeply and were carrying on quite loudly on the lower floors. The refurbishing of the building made the place far more practical, but not at all any more sound proof. Jory found it interesting that even though this group of people weren’t like the ragtag bunch of scavengers, mercs, and travelers that came through the Dugout on a daily basis, they all sounded just as stupid when they’re drunk.

_Do they not have any idea how idiotic they sound? Why do they do that to themselves?_

It wouldn’t be until morning, as he crept by the snoring pile of imbeciles, that he would realize the drunks were none other than the company shot up during their training the previous morning. He was nearly out the door, when he had a brilliant idea. As quietly as possible, he collected as many empty drinking glasses as he could, lying around from their little party. Next, he filled each one half way with whatever remaining liquids he could find in unfinished beer and liquor bottles, then carefully, planted the glasses on the sleeping, snoring bodies. The next time one of them so much as shifted their position, the cup would spill, and the wake of that person’s surprise would cause a domino effect of waking persons and spilled cups.

He almost regret not being able to see it when it happened, but he had training to attend, after all.

Shadow nearly gave him a heart attack. The aptly-titled agent appeared from beside the doorway and confronted him immediately. “Nice work in there. Maybe you’re the one we should call ‘Shadow,’” she smirked.

“Holy shit!” Jory exclaimed, startled nearly out of his wits. He doubled over to catch his breath, his heart rate having jumped through the roof. “Guh…good morning to you, too.”

“I couldn’t resist. I saw you pull off the whole thing. Really, good job. It looks like half my work is already done, all we really need to talk about is best practices.”

A yelp followed by a string of startled cries could be heard from within the barracks. Jory fought very hard to keep himself from grinning in satisfaction, causing his face to distort in his efforts. Shadow shook her head. “A lot of things are starting to make sense,” she said, cryptically.

Jory’s training went as expected for the first two days. He spent time with Shadow, then Tripwire that first day, then Shadow, and Deacon on the second. They gave him an introduction to the important topics of accumulating intel, preparing dead drops, interpreting orders from the dead drops, and some additional wasteland survival tips. Both nights he was fast asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Early the third morning, he was shaken awake well before sunrise. He was having the bright lights and paralysis dream again, and for that, didn’t mind the interruption. He blinked his eyes open to regard the figure in front of him. “Drummer Boy?”

“Hey, Microchip. It’s extremely urgent. Grab your bag and your jacket and meet Desdemona in the war room, right away,” Drummer Boy replied. Jory sat up and rubbed his eyes, but didn’t make to get out of the bed. Drummer Boy lingered. “You’re okay? You’re getting up?”

Jory yawned and waved him out. “Yeah, I’m getting up.” Twenty minutes later, the groggy, bedhead-sporting teen shuffled into the administrative building, through the main foyer, and up the stairs. The training yard was significantly quieter at that time of night, most of its occupants asleep, and those who weren’t, silently stood on a posted watch. The only lights in the building were stray lanterns left in the foyer, along the stairs, and the one lit inside the war room. He entered to find Desdemona, Deacon, and someone he didn’t recognize. The latter was sitting on a chair next to Desdemona’s map table and looked as though they’d escaped a harrowing situation. Their clothing was torn in various places, and their face bore bruises and scrapes. Deacon leaned against the wall in his classic pose, only this time, his mouth was curved in a deep frown.

Desdemona took a drag on her cigarette, the burning embers illuminating her face in their bright orange glow and casting a distorted shadow onto the wall behind her. She blew out the smoke in a slow exhale. “Well,” she began in a low voice, “I’m sure you figured out that if we’re rousing you from your sleep at 1 AM, something’s up, and it isn’t good.” She gestured towards the injured agent in the chair. “Echelon is the only survivor from a small intelligence outpost, Tower Twelve, that we had only just established a couple of months ago. Not only did the Puritans discover it, they sent enough people to wipe it out. Or, at least, attempt to.”

“Something about all of this really stinks,” muttered Deacon. “As long as none of you got close, as long as none of you were _followed_ –“

“We did everything exactly as you trained us. We were posted to observe and report, nothing more. We never went out at the same time of day, never took the same way back. All that shit,” Echelon interrupted. “We were basically ambushed. Someone had to have told some Puritan spy where we were at. There’s no other explanation.”

“Someone on the inside, here, might be giving information to the inside, there,” Jory suggested.

All three adults turned to look at him. Desdemona puffed her cigarette and smiled, slightly. “A mole. That’s my thinking, as well. But, that’s our problem to deal with here at HQ.” Her smile evaporated as quickly as a puff of smoke escaped her lips. “The situation has become escalated in its seriousness, and very quickly. The Puritans are starting to hit us on our own territory. If they knew about Tower Twelve, we must act as though they know about the training yard, and any other of our intel operations.”

“Which ones are those?”

“Better that you don’t know, kid,” Deacon answered, gravely. “If you get made, they won’t be able to torture it out of you.”

_Holy shit. I jumped from minor ball to the big leagues outta nowhere._

Desdemona spoke again, before Jory could respond. “You’re being deployed tonight. As soon as this meeting is over, Deacon will escort you into Malden to show you your dead drop, and then your mission officially begins.”

Jory could feel his heartbeat pick up speed within his chest. It started to hammer inside him. He imagined his heart flinging itself against his ribcage. His face began to flush and his mind raced with a million thoughts and questions. “A-are you sure? I didn’t even learn how to shoot a gun!” he stammered.

Desdemona’s shoulders fell. She dropped her cigarette to the floor and snuffed it out with her foot, then sighed. In the comparatively low lamplight, her face looked exhausted. Shadows cut deeply beneath her eyes and on her forehead. “Honestly, that’s probably better, in the end. The last person they will suspect to be a plant within their organization will be an unarmed, untrained teenaged boy.”

“You hope,” muttered Echelon.

Jory swallowed.

“Ignore him,” Deacon responded. “He’s understandably bitter over losing his team and his assignment.”

Desdemona broke character once more. She leaned over, gently took Jory by both shoulders, and looked him right in the eyes. She smelled a little sweaty, like it had been a couple days since she had last bathed, and her breath carried a hint of tobacco from her cigarette. “I know that this is all very sudden for you. Not even a week ago, you had a completely different life. For what it’s worth, I want you to know that we’ve all seen how far you’ve come in this short amount of time. We’re all very proud of you. Especially, me.”

Jory’s heart rate slowed slightly from Desdemona’s comfort. He returned her gaze. “I won’t let you down, Dez.”

“I know.” She regarded him for a moment more, as though she had something else to say. Instead, she squeezed his shoulders, then released him and stood. “Deacon, it’s time.”

Deacon and Jory stepped back out into the early morning. Overhead, the sky was littered with sparse clouds, but the world remained illuminated in the silvery glow of the stars and moon. Deacon pulled on a black leather jacket and began to lead Jory to the road. Jory himself buttoned up his denim jacket, and followed. Instead of following the road north directly towards the center of Malden, they crossed it, and began to creep through the brush and shadows. Neither spoke a word. Jory did his best to keep from yawning during the entire journey.

Deacon led them with the confidence of any professional guide past an abandoned military checkpoint, across a bridge, and into the center of Malden proper. They drew up to an alley, featuring an ancient mailbox painted on the side with a white tear drop. The alley was full of rubble, otherwise, and inaccessible from any other angle. “This is your dead drop, kid. You’ll have to visit it about once a week to leave your reports, and receive any updated orders from The Boss.”

“Right. I remember,” Jory replied. He looked around the area, trying as best as he could to gather some bearings in the moonlight.

Deacon dug into his pockets and pulled out some piecemeal supplies. He handed Jory a couple bandages, a Stimpak, a prepackaged sweet roll, and a bottle of Nuka Cola. “Listen, kid, none of us are really happy about sending you out there, underprepared. Hell, you were going to be just barely ready by the end of the week.” Deacon reached up and scratched his cheek. “Perhaps a great lesson to learn is, nothing will ever go to plan. So really, the fact that you’re not prepared, is the best kind of prepared.”

Jory dropped the items into his leather purse. He looked back at Deacon. The moonlight made it even harder to read the man’s face. “I’m a little scared,” he admitted.

“Good. That’ll keep you from getting too cocky.” Deacon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Look. I know none of us are supposed to have any idea of who you are, and where you went, but at least I have the advantage of the reputation of a pathological liar.”

“Okay...”

“You see that main street?” Deacon leaned out and pointed to the road that wound past the group of buildings at the end of the block. “There’s a caravan due through that way tomorrow – well, which I guess is really, sometime later today – and they go right into the Puritan compound to trade with them.” He resumed his crossed arms pose. “You feed them a good enough sob story, and I guarantee they’ll take you right in with them. What that story is, I’ll leave it up to you.”

“A caravan to the Puritans. Got it. Anything else?”

“Tons. Unfortunately, we have run out of time.” Deacon regarded the teenager, then reached out and clapped him on the back. “Good luck, Microchip. Time to be legendary.” He offered a small wave, before stepping back out of the alley and disappearing into some shadows beyond.

Jory took several steadying breaths. This was it. For good measure, he popped open the dead drop box and peeked inside. Empty. _I’m going to have to keep track of the days a little better, now._ He closed the box and crept back out of the alley and down the block. He slowly pulled his gaze around the corner of the destroyed building at the intersection and looked down the street. The dim lighting made it difficult to see anything distinctive in the far distance, though he could make out barrel fires, smoke, and some sort of gruesome set of totems. Raiders, or mutants; violent threats to be avoided, regardless. Halfway between that and where he stood seemed to be a hive of feral ghouls, their hissing and slithering impossible to miss.

_…yup, just gonna stay right here._

The sun had risen by the time he woke up. He had fallen asleep sitting up against the ruined building on the corner of the intersection. His backside ached and muscles in his neck were quite sore and stiff. Jory groaned and stretched, hoping the aches would subside once he started moving.

Moving! _Did I miss the caravan?! What time is it? It would be hard to miss a caravan, wouldn’t it? No way I would have slept through them going by._ He stood up and gazed around the corner once more. To his elation, the distinct arrangement of overlaiden Brahmin, two guards, and a trader, were just passing the mutant outpost down the road. _Got lucky this time. Gotta be more diligent from now on._ Jory’s mind quickly raced to come up with some excuse as to why he was out there, alone, and why the caravan should escort him to the Puritans. His eyes darted around his immediate surroundings. He estimated five, maybe seven minutes, were all he had before the caravan would be on top of him.

Jory turned and scraped the backs of his hands on the exposed, rough brick, of the wall of the building. He checked his work, and frowned; the wounds looked as fresh as they were. He took a deep breath, denying himself the chance to panic, and looked around once more. He squat and started rubbing dirt and dust onto his hands, and made a point of smudging some onto his face and into his hair, then shuddered, violently. If there were anything about his Institute pedigree that he had yet to temper, it would be his revulsion about being dirty. For good measure, he rubbed some dirt into his clothes and jacket. That final act was enough to make him nauseous, but he swallowed it down. _Keep it together, just keep it together._

The sounds of the clodding Brahmin and some muted conversation were not far off. He was out of time. Jory ducked out of the road and back against the wall, where he curled up and leaned his head into his knees. He listened as the caravan lumbered past.

Show time.

Jory lifted his head just as the rear of the Brahmin was in full view. “H-hey! Hey, there!” He stood and lifted his left arm, as if to flag them down. “Excuse me, hey! Hey, you! Help! Help me, please!”

One of the guards turned to look at him, his rifle in his hands, but not aimed. “We ain’t got no handouts, kid.”

“What? No, not that, I…I need to find the Puritans. Please!” Jory scurried up to match pace with the guard, who had begun walking with the pack once more. “Please, just give me some directions. I’ve been lost for two days, and I’m hungry.” He added a hitch to his voice in an attempt to elicit some sympathy.

The trader at the front of the pack motioned for the caravan to stop. It was a small figure with androgynous features, clad in road leathers and a heavy trench coat. “What’s the commotion, back here?” The voice was smooth, and alto. “Davis, didn’t you tell the kid we don’t got handouts?”

“Of course I did, but he started cryin’ about lookin’ for the Puritans or some shit,” the man addressed as Davis replied. He leaned over and spat into the dust at his feet. A wave of nausea flooded through Jory. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils to calm himself.

“The Puritans?” The trader stepped towards Jory with a curious look on their face. “What’s some kid want with those hooligans?”

_Don’t crack don’t you crack now is not the time to crack._ “I…I heard they hate synths, from the old Institute. They’re hunting them and killing them.”

The trader barked some kind of repetitive hacking sound. Jory realized they were laughing. “You wanna hunt people-bots? _You?_ How old are you, kid? Eleven?”

“Thirteen.”

“Ah, _thirteen_. My mistake. Listen, I’m just a trader, I don’t get into _politics_ , I just want to make my caps and settle down with a double scotch before bed every night. But I guarantee the Puritans ain’t gonna wanna babysit some kid.” The trader shrugged, then flapped their hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Just go back home, buddy. Yer mom probably misses you.”

“My mom’s _dead_ ,” Jory blurted. The trader stopped short. Jory tapped into the welling emotions and continued, before the trader could reply. “My dad, too, and my sister. A synth came t-to our farm, said she had escaped from the Institute, had nowhere to go. I was upstairs, in my room. M-my dad, he…he told her she had to leave. He didn’t want to pick a side, either, like you. But the synth, she started yelling, got real mad.” Jory sniffed, even managed to cause a tear to form in his eye. “She pulled out a gun and just…just _shot_ them. My dad, then my mom. My sister tried to run out the back door but the synth just shot her, too.”

“God damn,” the trader mumbled. “How did you survive?”

Jory sniffed again, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I crawled underneath my bed and lay there listening for a long time. The synth went all through our house, looking through the rooms and furniture. She took caps and some food and left.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Dad should’ve killed her. He didn’t pick a side and my family died because of it. So, _I’m_ picking a side. But I ran out of supplies and I’m lost, now, and –“

“All right, okay,” the trader raised both hands to stop Jory’s talking. “We’ll help you.”

Jory wiped the tears from his eyes. “Really? You’ll give me directions?”

“We can do better than that. We happen to be on our way to the Puritans’ main compound right now. Just…stay close, and don’t bother us. Got it?”

“Y-yes! Yes, of course, sir. Ma’am. …w-whichever. Sorry. My dad taught us to always be polite.”

The trader waved him off and took their rightful place at the head of the line. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to be any more late than we already are.”

Davis nudged Jory between the shoulders with the butt of his rifle. Jory stumbled and started walking. Barely a full minute had passed when the trader turned to address Jory once more.

“Just so’s you know, we’ll take you to the Puritans, but I got absolutely no say or whatever in whether or not they actually take you in, and I am not gonna be responsible for escorting your ass out of there to somewhere else, either.”

“No, that’s fine, I understand,” Jory nodded eagerly. His stomach was doing flips. The caravan had bought his story without a single question asked. In his life, he had only ever known friendly synths, those that simply fulfilled their duties as caretakers, or his teachers of his various classes. It wasn’t until his harrowing escape and the recounting of horrific experiences through his time with the Railroad did he ever learn about how Gen 1s and 2s were sent to the surface to eradicate whole settlements, Gen 3s programmed to replace live humans, and worst of all, ruthless Coursers dispatched to retrieve escaped synths. For him, creating a story about a murderous Gen 3 required the application of heavy imagination.

…and, it had worked.

_It worked, this time. Keep yourself in check. Stay a little scared._ Jory matched pace with the caravan guard Davis, and remained silent for the rest of the journey.

The caravan plodded steadily for a good portion of the morning. They stopped for a brief water break, but that was it. The trader was adamant about arriving at the compound in a timely fashion.

They had begun their approach of the compound before Jory realized it was the crudely walled, smoke-hazed eyesore in the distance. The outer wall was fabricated from scrap metal, wood, and any other material that could be hammered together in big pieces. It was gruesomely adorned with parts of Gen 1s and 2s, hammered into the wall, and worse: body parts, particularly heads, of murdered Gen 3s were impaled with sharpened stakes and nailed into the wall, as well. Anti-synth sentiment was painted all around it, including what he assumed was their icon: the capital letter P within a symbol of the sun. “What’s with all the smoke?” he mused aloud.

“They’ve taken to burning everything: synths, synth parts, human synth sympathizers. Plastic doesn’t exactly burn cleanly. Brace yourself, because it doesn’t smell great, either,” the trader answered unexpectedly. Jory nodded and said nothing more.

The caravan had to circle the entire compound to get to the main gate. The smell became more distinct as they rounded the walls, and the trader had not exaggerated. It was altogether unpleasant, reminding Jory briefly of the old incinerators back in the Institute. There were undertones of other things, as well, but he couldn’t identify any single source or likeness – it just smelled _bad._ He started breathing through his mouth to keep the nausea in check.

Beyond the main gate, lopsided, crude tents littered the grounds with no distinct pattern. The smoke cast a distinct haze on the ground level, as well as into the sky. Jory was a little surprised at what the Puritans had established as their compound. In his experience, most settled areas were a refurbished reclamation of some pre-war structure, but the Puritans seemed to have just set up shop on a large parcel of land they took for their own. There were people merely milling about, disorganized, and doing very little.

_Hardly the image I took to be as the Railroad’s greatest rival since the Institute._ As they plodded through to the center of the compound, they approached another walled off, gated, and guarded portion of the compound.

“Hey, Rocky,” one of the guards greeted the trader. She shifted her assault rifle to push open the gate. “Running a bit behind, today, aren’t you?”

The trader, finally identified as Rocky, grumbled and pushed through.

Recessed into the ground was a pre-war military bunker. The majority of it had been unearthed recently, as Jory could see a natural colour difference between the ground he stood upon and the ground in the hole. Crude planks had been placed to create a ramp down to the entrance of the building. He absently took a step to begin the descent, when Davis reached out and stopped him by the arm.

“Nuh-uh, kid. You gotta be invited to go down there. It’s where they make all their _plans_.”

“Oh, right,” Jory replied with a nervous chuckle. Just as he was turning himself to look around, a man who appeared to be in his late twenties emerged from the building and came up the ramp. He wore a denim vest (that looked more like the sleeves had been torn off what had been a full jacket) over a long-sleeved, faded blue shirt, and khaki green cargo pants. His hair was long, and tied behind his neck in a lazy ponytail.

“This is Oscar Holly, one of the leaders of this group,” Rocky directed towards Jory. “This kid was on the road, said he was lookin’ for y’all, wantin’ to join up.”

“Really?” Oscar huffed, looking Jory over. “How old are you? Eleven?”

_That has really stopped being funny._ Jory clenched his teeth and offered what he hoped was a sheepish smile. “Thirteen, sir. A synth muh-murdered my family. They need to be destroyed, once and for all.”

“He’s got the right idea,” Oscar responded, looking back towards Rocky.

“I made him zero promises, Mr. Holly, I assure you. We were goin’ the same direction and I told him he was stuck here to figure it out,” Rocky was quick to reply.

“I’ve paid your prices, Rocky, I know you don’t give anyone a break,” he winked. Jory was starting to get a sense of Oscar’s charismatic nature and his gears started turning. “What’s your name, kid?”

_Oh fuck! Why didn’t I spend the time on the road thinking more about this? Shit shit shit shit –_ “It’s ‘Ira,’ Mr. Holly. ‘Ira Dorval.’” It was the first thing he could think of. “Ira” was what they had called his sister, Mirabel, for short. He hoped he didn’t appear to be trembling too much.

Oscar nodded. “Nice to meet you, Ira. We don’t send kids to the front lines or anything, but if you want to stay, get back into camp and make yourself useful, somehow. We hear good things, and you got a new family.”

Jory felt a pain in his gut, hearing Oscar liken the Puritans to a family. He was used to the Railroad using that term and it felt…wrong. _Suck it up. You need to integrate, or your Railroad family will meet the fate of your real one._ He noticed that Oscar, Rocky, and the rest of the caravan were all looking at him. “Y-yes, sir! Thank you!” He turned and scampered past the inner gate and into the main camp.

_Making myself useful means I have to help them, help them against the Railroad and anyone else they decide stand in their way._ He wandered through the scattered campsites, aimlessly for the most part, while he gathered his thoughts. He approached the outer wall, turned, and leaned against it. Most of the Puritans seemed to be civilians, people who had lived a hard life of survival, and joined the cause for some semblance of security and a future. He saw a few of them working on guns, others stirring pots hanging over fires, and then something he hadn’t seen since he left Diamond City: children playing.

_Something isn’t right, here. Where are the fighters? Most of these people haven’t been in a firefight in their life. They’re settlers._ He frowned, vowing to get to the bottom of it.

The bottom. That must have been it – the interior of that uncovered bunker. Jory knew what his objective was, and would have to plan carefully.

A clattering nearby broke him of his reverie. A teenager, a few years older than himself, had dropped a couple crates of vegetables as he attempted to carry them into the camp. Jory sprung into action and began picking up vegetables. “Hey, buddy! Let me help you with that,” he chirped with a smile.

“O-oh, thanks. I shouldn’t have tried to carry it all, by myself,” the teen replied.

“I’m here to help, now! Nothin’ doin’. I’m Ira, just got in with the caravan.”

“Jordan. You just came in with the caravan? _Rocky_ ’s caravan?” Jordan stooped and started picking up vegetables as well.

“Yeah, they found me lost out on the road, trying to get to this place. I gathered that Rocky isn’t known for generosity.”

“Lost? Oh geez, pal, are you alone? No parents or nothin’?”

“Ah, yeah. Synth killed my whole family, while I hid. I decided I’d join up here, aid the efforts. Or, try. Mr. Holly gave me some conditions.” Jory straightened and lifted one of the crates. “Where to?”

“This way,” Jordan led. “Which Mr. Holly did you talk to?”

“Oscar.”

“Wow. He’s the meaner one, too. Guess he liked your chops, or somethin’. You sure you got that?”

For emphasis, Jory shifted the crate, and smiled. “I’m fine.”

“Well, I’m gonna have you stay for dinner with my family, since you don’t have one. It’ll be as a thank you for your help.” Jordan led them past another dozen or so camps before approaching one set up next to a barrel fire, a large blue tarp draped over a set of four sleeping bags, some duffle bags, and other assorted necessities of life. “Everyone else is running drills, yet. I’m still too young to get to train,” he grumbled bitterly.

“Yeah, Mr. Holly said something like that to me, too. Where do you want this?”

“Just set it anywhere – yeah, that’s fine. You like Nuka Cola?”

Jory grinned. “Who doesn’t?”


	5. Chapter 5

It took until the third full week of living within the Puritans’ main compound for Jory to feel as though he had integrated, and no one suspected anything about him. Jordan and his family quickly took him in, and he paid them back by helping Jordan with his daily chores.

“There used to be more of us. I had one other sister, and two older, twin brothers, but they had the misfortune of being out in the field just over a year and a half ago when some of the freaky synths rode in on some lightning outta thin air, and just opened fire,” Jordan relayed his family’s tragedy a few days after Jory’s arrival as the two picked wild silt beans beyond the compound’s walls. “It was terrible. Pa managed to get his shotgun, and a few other of the farm hands we had at the time grabbed their weapons, and between them they took the synths down. We never recovered. The damage to the crops, and, well, having lost three children, my parents never were able to get their hearts back into farmin’ again. Few months ago, pa heard the Puritans were gatherin’ regular folk like us for the cause, and that’s that.”

The fact that Jordan’s family had five children plus the two adults threw Jory for a loop. Reproductive restrictions in the Institute were extremely firm. He found himself becoming lost in the train of thought that his was the only family he even knew of where there was more than one child…

Jory realized that Jordan was expecting a reply. He nodded solemnly. “I’m so sorry for your loss. That’s…awful.”

“Thanks. You went through the same kind of thing, right? I know that you know the same pain.” Jordan tossed his handful of beans into his crate. “Synths are the _worst_. The fact that the Railroad even thinks that any should be saved, and let out of the Commonwealth is just pure insanity. I’m so glad the Puritans are trying to rip them all apart.”

Jory had merely nodded.

At first he was only helping Jordan and his family with their chores. The compound was tightly woven enough that soon, word of an eager, helpful orphan spread among the ranks. Jory found himself carrying crates for seniors, babysitting toddlers, steadying ladders, and hanging laundry. Later that third week, he snuck into a ruined pre-war daycare overrun with deranged Miss Nannys to retrieve a case of powdered infant formula, and returned unscathed. News of his success blew through the camp like wildfire.

“Both Mr. Hollys want to see you,” the runner had told him, mere hours after his return with the stash. “Immediately.”

He and Jordan had exchanged a look over the dishes they were washing. “You better go,” Jordan dismissed him, frowning.

Jory followed the runner back to the inner gate, who waved to the guards, then led Jory through. He was brought down the fabricated ramp and into the bunker. Panels of pre-war tech lined the left wall, its purpose no longer known. Unlit LEDs poked out of the plastic faceplate, joined together with drawn lines. He hadn’t seen anything like that since the Institute. He swallowed an ache of homesickness. The room was rectangular, with an abandoned desk set up on the far right side. Next to it, in the far wall, was a door with an electronic maglock and an angry red light posted above it.

The runner knocked on the door four times. It was a hollow, metallic sound. “Just stay here,” he instructed Jory as he walked by the young teen and exit the room back outside.

The red light began to blink in tandem with a buzzer sound that filled the whole room. Jory cringed and searched the ceiling to locate the source when saw a small, embedded speaker in the center. The door swung open inward, and two men walked through the opening. When the door shut behind them, the light ceased blinking, as did the buzzer. Jory recognized the taller as Oscar Holly, the man he conversed with before. He wore his denim vest over a red shirt. The other man, only slightly shorter, kept a trim haircut compared to his brother, though it was similar in colour. He also wore a denim vest, over a black t-shirt. Jory realized then that the denim vest was their uniform, of sorts, as the heads of the gang.

Oscar stepped over to the ancient desk and sat on it. “Hi, Ira. This is my brother, Ethan Holly,” he gestured to the other man. “Ethan, this is that kid, Ira Dorval. I met him the day he got in.”

Ethan looked Jory up and down, and nodded. “Yeah, okay. I probably have seen you buzzin’ around camp once or twice.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Jory replied.

“We heard you lifted a case of baby formula from Doom Daycare,” Oscar went straight to the point.

Jory glanced between the Holly brothers. “Yes, Mr. Holly. That’s right. Dropped it off in camp this morning, sir.”

“How many bots were there?”

“Uh…” Jory thought back. “Five.”

“How did you get past five crazy Miss Nanny bots?” Oscar’s face appeared bemused, though his tone was completely serious.

Jory elected to simply tell the truth. “I didn’t rush it. I kept to the shadows and watched them for a while. Those bots just…moved in a circuit. I stayed behind them, didn’t cross their paths, moved really quietly. That’s really it.”

“Undetected.”

“Are you a synth?” Ethan growled before Jory could respond. Jory’s heart rate jumped immediately and he felt the pounding in his temples. He was relieved of having to answer as Oscar stood from his perch on the desk to hammer punch Ethan on the younger brother’s left bicep. Jory flinched at the fleshy thud Oscar’s fist made in contact with Ethan’s arm and the resultant angry red mark left behind.

_Add to the same list, do not get punched by Oscar Holly._

“There ain’t any _child_ synths, moron. We were told that.” Oscar didn’t even shake out his hand after levelling such a harsh blow. “Though, it might be interesting to know how you pulled it off. Those bots have three eyes, each.”

“My older sister was a really light sleeper. I liked to play practical jokes on her, you know, for fun. I’d leave dead roaches next to the foot of her bed to step on in the morning, stuff like that.” Jory shrugged in an attempt to appear modest. “I just had to learn to be dead quiet, real quick.” He shifted his weight, his nerves beginning to show a little bit. “Did I do something…wrong? Did that baby formula belong to someone else, and I stole it?”

Oscar laughed. “Kid, if it’s layin’ out, it’s up for grabs.”

“Our mom would have called someone like you a ‘cupcake,’” Ethan added, as though he were saying something intelligent.

Jory relaxed. “Oh, uh…thank you.” He had no idea if that was really a compliment. Both men laughed, again.

Oscar had returned to his perch on the desk. “Ira, we’ve been trying to get that baby formula out of there for months. Seemed no matter what we tried, those Nanny bots would catch sight of our scavver and attack as a throng.”

“A couple people lost a few limbs,” Ethan shuddered.

”We thought getting in there was going to be impossible, unless we could somehow draw the robots out, one by one, and shut them down or break them or somethin’. But they were a group, every time, and we just gave up.” Oscar took a breath and flicked his ponytail back over his shoulder. “How’d you find out about the formula? You piss someone off, they thought they’d send you on a suicide mission?”

“I babysat for the Dawkins a few times, and Kelly brought it up. I don’t think she knew about anyone losing limbs. All she knew was the camp stopped trying to get the formula.” Jory toed the ground. “You asked me to be useful, I was just acting on that, sir.”

“You called that one right, E,” Oscar grinned. “Definitely a cupcake.” He kicked his feet out in front of him and leaned back, crossing his arms.

“If all that’s really true, if you crept in like a little mouse and none of them crazed robots were the wiser, then we can use you.” Ethan seemed to finally have found his words to say something relevant.

“There’s all sorts of things out there, cached away, that we haven’t been able to crack into. Sometimes there’s high security, like the Miss Nannys, and sometimes low functioning thugs but a lot of them,” Oscar continued. “Problem is, our compound keeps growing, and basic food and supplies we get off the caravans, but stuff like medicine, and electronics? Not so easy to get.”

“We cleared out all the ruins within a day’s walk of here, in all directions, that didn’t have more than some wildlife livin’ in them. Trouble is, we’re tryin’ to train an army, and we can’t really spend time teaching people how to stay alive while stealing. Right?” Ethan finished.

Jory had an intense feeling of déjà vu as the brothers described their situation. “You want me to sneak into the really hard places, and bring back the good stuff, you mean?”

“Pretty much,” Oscar answered, very seriously.

Jory shrugged.   “Okay. When do I start? And where?”

Ethan raised an eyebrow and looked at Oscar, who tilted his head but maintained his gaze on Jory. “Tomorrow, but we’ll have to find someone to go with you.”

“Why?” Ethan asked, before Jory had even opened his own mouth.

Oscar rolled his eyes and gesticulated with his hand. Ethan flinched, bracing himself for another blow, but it didn’t come. “Because letting him loose out in the wasteland alone would be irresponsible, numbnuts. He’s no help to us if he gets killed.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Jory interjected, “it’s better if I do work alone. I know my abilities and weaknesses, or I guess, I just know how to be quiet. If I have to explain to someone what I’m doing all the time, it’ll…defeat the purpose.” He thought of Rita, and the only prank they played together.

“Damn,” Ethan swore, “this kid’s a fucking genius.”

“Yeah,” Oscar replied, a slight smile on his face, “I think you’re right about that.”

Jory blushed. “Oh, well…”

“Be back here tomorrow morning, cupcake, and we’ll tell you what we want and from where.”

“Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir.”

Ethan smiled. “Congrats, Ira. You’re officially part of the Puritans.”

Jory stood outside the inner gate after his dismissal and gathered his thoughts. Ethan’s congratulations had made him feel ill. Becoming integrated into the Puritans was a crucial part of his assignment from the Railroad, but he hadn’t expected to have an emotional reaction to it. Jory took some deep breaths, and regret it, as he inhaled the smog that always hung in the air. He gagged.

“You all right, there, half pint?” one of the guards nudged him with the stock of her rifle.

“Y-yeah, I’m okay. Just…yeah, I’m fine!” Jory blushed again, embarrassed he was caught gagging on the noxious air of the compound. He spun on his heel and took a left, deliberately avoiding the direction back to Jordan’s family’s camp. He needed some time to think.

Jory leaned up against the inside of the outer wall, as he had the last time he left the inner gates. He looked at his feet and frowned. _What is happening to my life?_ As far as he could tell, the best thing for him to do was to just do as he was told, even if it meant fetching things to help their cause. The Railroad – Desdemona – had to know that something like this was bound to occur, by sending him in here. How else was he to get close to the leaders, to the information he needed to relay back to them?

It crashed on him like a load of bricks.

_I’ll be able to leave the compound freely, and alone. They’ll send me to places they haven’t been able to penetrate. I won’t always have to even bring back the equipment, I could just leave it for the Railroad, and tell the Puritans I never found it._

_Not to mention, actually use the dead drops like I’m supposed to. I hope they aren’t mad. I hope they don’t think I’m dead, myself._

Jory closed his eyes. _Focus, pal. For now, they’re interested in what you can bring. Stay cool and get some information you and the Railroad can use to take these guys down, for good._ He straightened up and rolled his shoulders back, listening to them pop, then walked back to Jordan’s camp.

The next morning, Jory returned to the inner gate, as instructed. The nasty, plastic-infused smoke was thinner at dawn, before most of the camp awoke and started throwing synth parts back into the barrel fires. The haze that remained made the sky appear to have an angrier tinge to its pink than he was used to. He dressed in loose cargo pants with a light t-shirt and a polyester jacket, and his leather purse that he packed with a few snacks and water. He wasn’t sure what to expect for this job and didn’t want to be caught completely without any supplies.

The gate opened and there stood Ethan Holly, himself. He seemed to have a similar idea to Jory and wore a simple jacket over his denim vest and a green shirt. “Well, well! Right on time and everything. You sure are somethin’ else,” the man greeted Jory.

“Good morning, sir,” Jory responded.

Ethan stepped out of the gate and made a circular motion in the air with his finger. The guards pulled the gate shut behind him. “Okay, first thing’s first, tank the ‘sir’ business. My brother’s real into that respectful address shit, but me, it’s gonna just irritate me. Got it?” He started a brisk walk through the camp.

Jory swallowed and hopped to match Ethan’s pace. “Y-yes, I understand.” He followed a few paces, more. “Were there some instructions for me?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry Ira. We’re going together on this trip, today, back to Doom Daycare. I guess I could’ve told ya that.”

“We are?” Jory’s stomach sunk. He had planned to make his way to the dead drop before worrying about the job. “You changed your mind about letting me go alone, then?” His voice was a sheepish squeak.

“Not really.” Ethan’s height advantage allowed him to nearly glide over and around random obstacles lying about the campsite, but Jory had to manoeuvre more deliberately. “There’s more formula in that place, right? We’re going to go get it. Which really means, I’m gonna help you carry it back here and watch how you get in and out. I’m just…curious.” He glanced behind him and flashed Jory an odd smile.

_Guess I postpone the dead drop visit for another day._ He nearly tripped over a duffle bag just sticking out from a heap of crates. _Maybe if he can see that I am competent, they’ll give me even more leeway to leave the camp when and how often I want to. That could be a good thing._

The two emerged into the clearer air outside the compound. Ethan made a facetious bow towards Jory. “Lead the way, cupcake.”

The location known as “Doom Daycare” was an hour or so walk from the Puritans’ compound, a unit in a strip of buildings featuring a pre-war parking lot that backed on to a hill. Either by war or circumstance, the other buildings were ruined beyond exploration or long abandoned, leaving the daycare the only site featuring life, even if they were merely robots.

Ethan crouched next to some bushes at the edge of the ruined parking lot. “If I watch from here, do you think that will keep me out of sight of the robots?”

Jory took a moment to realize that Ethan posed a serious question. He nodded, then shed his bag and his jacket. “If they come after you this way, though, I am running in the opposite direction.”

“Heh. That’s fair.” Ethan’s eyes twinkled. “Good luck.”

_If I didn’t know better, he’s either rigged this somehow, or he still doesn’t believe that I can do this._ Jory gave a single, closed-mouth nod, then made his approach.

He breathed calmly through his nose only, a habit he conditioned himself into years ago when he started creeping around the Institute pulling pranks. He took an identical path to the one he used the day before, following the rough line of the disintegrated edge of the parking lot, across the road, then onto the sidewalk of the strip. Jory pressed himself into a shadow cast by the steel beam of a ruined traffic light that had fallen onto the building long ago. He leaned against the building, slowing his heart rate, and listening. The daycare was two units over yet, but the distinct hiss-and-pause sound of the Miss Nannys moving around was easily heard over the relative quiet of the wasteland.

Satisfied he had calmed his mind and body sufficiently enough, he started the slow creep towards the daycare. It sounded like the robots were stuck in an infinite dance, the music for which had died centuries ago. _These bots were supposed to take care of babies, yet none of them seem to have noticed the cribs are empty. I guess a nuclear war and 200 years of neglect can cause some screws to come loose…_

Jory scrunched himself up to squat below the bottom edge of the broken window’s frame, listening to the Miss Nannys chatter away at each other, but more importantly, to their compressors and the soft sound of the air as one would drift by. He held his breath before turning and hoisting himself through the window and into the daycare in a fluid movement, then immediately crawled beneath the empty cribs still standing against the inner wall. From there, he waited for a second Nanny to go by, then for a third to approach from within an inner hallway to stop at the junction, slowly rotate 360 degrees, then go back down the hallway. Jory then slipped out from beneath the crib and directly to the storage room, a closet between the outer wall and the inner hallway. He soundlessly stepped into the storage closet and closed the door behind him.

Jory lowered himself to the floor and exhaled as slowly as possible, once again allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. He listened to the sounds of the Nannys moving around in the next room, concentrating on how close they were, seeing an image in his mind of their positions. He pulled down a case of the baby formula and waited. When the last Nanny had retreated back down the inner hallway once more, he exited the closet and went back to the window. He leaned out as far as he could, his hands still a good foot from the ground, and dropped the case of formula that landed with a dusty thud. Jory didn’t stick around to see if Ethan was truly watching and ducked back beneath the crib once more.

He repeated the trip two more times, effectively emptying all the formula from the closet. As Jory climbed out the ruined window one last time, to compensate landing on the stack of formula, he lifted his left leg higher than he would have to just exit through the window, but a dangling lace from his sneaker caught on a snag. He pulled it loose but lost his balance completely and fell in a heap over the formula and directly onto the ground. Jory recovered quickly and scrambled around the edge of the formula to press himself against the wall, beneath the bottom frame of the windows.

“Hello? Who is there?” called the Miss Nanny making her round back past the windows. Jory didn’t dare look. He could hear the robot hovering next to the window, its compressor hissing on and off, as it scanned the environment. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing through his nostrils very slowly. Jory was very glad the robots couldn’t detect his heart rate, because to him, it felt like it was going to pound itself out of his body.

“Is there something there?” called a second Miss Nanny, joining the first.

“I do not see anything,” replied the original robot. “Perhaps some children playing Nicky Nicky Nine Doors again.”

“How they do _love_ that game,” the second one gushed, then floated away. After another moment or two, the first followed suit. Jory wasted no time in picking up the first case of formula and walking it down the strip, back to the edge of the parking lot once more. Ethan, from across the way, immediately saw what Jory was doing and followed the teenager’s path along the edge of the pavement up to the strip building, carrying Jory’s affairs. Once the third and final case had been retrieved, Ethan lifted two of them under one arm, while Jory carried the third, wearing his jacket and bag once again. Neither spoke until they were clear of the parking lot and back on their way to the compound.

“You’re the real deal, Ira. That was impressive,” Ethan complimented. “Stuck to shadows, stayed out of sight. I get it, now. It took you about an hour, but I can see that not rushing it really just paid off.”

Jory shifted the case of formula from one arm to the other. “I learned their movements yesterday, I spent a lot more time just laying low and listening than I did, today. Plus, I knew what I was looking for. Otherwise, we could have been a while…”

“If you’re really that modest, you’re definitely a cupcake,” Ethan barked. Jory remained unable to understand what that really meant, but he just smiled and shrugged. They walked for a few minutes, the sound of their foot falls an irregular rhythm and tenor as they clomped along the broken ground. Suddenly, Ethan reached his arm out to stop them both in their tracks. “Well, what do we have, here?”

Jory followed his gaze to see a Gen 1 synth making a slow approach towards them from around the side of a decrepit pre-war café. It was heavily damaged from some unknown altercation, limping badly on its right side, missing several pieces of plastic plating, and shooting sparks off all over its body. It held its laser pistol down at its side and seemed to be staring straight at the teenager. “COMMAND?” it buzzed.

Jory shivered. He had never seen a synth outside of the Institute. The image was at once familiar and completely foreign at the same time.

“Almost too easy!” Ethan hooted. He set the formula down and drew his own pistol. “It’s so damaged, it can’t even raise its weapon.”

“COMMAND?” the synth repeated. It fully ignored Ethan, directing its attention, and question, to Jory.

_Can it know I’m from the Institute? That’s not possible, right? I don’t have an ID badge, or a jumpsuit. It’s so far from the mainframe that it can’t possibly pull facial recognition._

“COMMAND?” it repeated once more, slowly closing the gap between itself and Jory.

Ethan squeezed off two rounds into the synth’s chest. It twitched dramatically, then stiffened entirely, and fell face-first into the dirt. “Never seen one do that before! Clearly it got banged around elsewhere and lost its wits.”

Jory wasn’t so sure, but he definitely wasn’t about to suggest otherwise. He nodded.

Ethan softened slightly. “Aw, you okay, partner? The Gen 1s are the ugliest and freakiest. You never seen one of these, before?”

_Yeah, that’s it. I’m scared of the synth, not that it could have blown my cover._ Jory sniffed and shook his head. “What was wrong with it?”

“Eh, just damaged from some other wasteland wildlife or something. They usually say nasty things, but this one kept babbling. Probably had a few chips knocked loose.” Ethan scooped up the two cases of baby formula and walked over to the synth. He rolled it over with his foot, then picked it up by the ankle and started dragging it with him. “Don’t need to be scared now, Ira, once they shut down, they’re nothin’ but scrap.”

Jory met Ethan’s pace once more and couldn’t help glancing at the synth more than he knew he should. The way its head had turned, it looked like it was staring into Jory’s eyes every time he looked back at it. “COMM-MM-MMA-A-A-A-AND?” it gargled one final time. Jory jumped and kept his eyes forward for the remainder of the walk.

“Got some rain comin’,” Ethan huffed as they approached the outer gate. “If you get too wet under a lousy tent, you can come inside the bunker, all right?”

“Ah…oh! Okay, thanks.” Jory was surprised at the offer. He wasn’t sure what it meant and was too confused about the synth’s behaviour to think much of it.

Ethan turned his attention to the guards at the gate. He grinned. “Add another one to the tally!” he hollered, whipping the synth around his body to fling it across the ground. It skid over the packed dirt and made a plastic sounding crunch as it made contact with the metal gate post. The guards replied with hoots and hollers of their own. Jory gave a lame smile and ducked into the gate, plunking the case of formula down on a pile of salvage and disappearing quickly into the gathering crowd, drawn by the noise.


	6. Chapter 6

As the days continued, it became nearly impossible for Jory to move around the camp and not be recognized, or greeted, by the other Puritans. Kelly Dawkins personally made a point of gifting him a hooded sweatshirt she had bought off a trader and mended for him.

“Ira, you sweet, wonderful, selfless guy,” she gushed, nearly suffocating Jory in her hug. “I had no idea that formula was in such a dangerous place. I thought we just didn’t have enough people to spare to scavenge it from those ruins. Thank you, thank you, _thank you!_ ”

“You’re…welcome…!” he puffed out in response.

Jory’s first off site, independent assignment came a few days after the success of the second formula raid. He had started to think that the Holly brothers weren’t serious about sending him out to help them, and that he’d have to revisit his strategy for getting out to the dead drop. He was summoned to the bunker once again. Oscar was waiting for him when he arrived.

“Ira, good to see you’re still keeping busy out there. New sweater?” Oscar nodded his head towards the teen.

“Yeah, Kelly Dawkins gave it to me.”

“That was kind of her.”

Jory shrugged. “She was really thankful for the formula, I guess.” He rocked on his heels with his arms crossed behind his back.

Oscar nodded. “It’s nice to have a tangible reward for hard work done, right? Keeps you motivated. Ready for another assignment?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good.” Oscar flipped his ponytail over his shoulder and placed his hands on his hips. “More robots, different context. There’s a pre-war military checkpoint a bit to the north of here. We clashed with the Railroad there a while back and drove them off, but one of the idiots in our party left behind a cache of ammo. Since then, an old Sentry Bot seems to have found its way back to the area, maybe drawn by some signal we didn’t know about.”

“I’ll go get the ammo for you,” Jory finished for Oscar.

Oscar raised a hand. “There’s a lot of it, including some mini nukes. What we need you to do is just move it from the checkpoint and cache it somewhere else, and I’ll send a separate team to recover the ammo later.” He pulled out a piece of paper and motioned for Jory to approach. “Here’s the checkpoint, and here, off to the east, is where I need you to re-stash the stash. There’s some picnic tables and a bit of a park area next to the river, you won’t miss it.”

Jory took the crude map and studied it. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

“You haven’t so far,” Oscar agreed. “Go see Richards, just outside the inner gate and to the right. I asked him to wrap up some rations for your trip.” He turned and went back to the inner door and knocked four times. “I need to get back to work. Good luck out there, Ira.”

Jory went to say something in response but his thoughts were completely drowned out by the klaxon of the alarm going off. He nodded and waved, then took his leave. He collected some rations, as instructed, then swung back to Jordan’s family’s camp to pick up his jacket and his bag.

Jordan was tossing vegetables into a pot to stew for most of the day. He hardly raised his head to address Jory. “Got your new assignment, then?” he muttered. Jory detected more than a little bitterness in his voice.

“Yeah. Gotta clear out a cache of ammo from a checkpoint patrolled by a Sentry Bot,” Jory replied while stuffing his rations into his bag. “Not sure how long it’ll take. I don’t know what kind of cover is out there. Could be a few days.”

“We’ll be sure not to worry about you, then.” Jordan stood and wiped his hands on the front of his pants, then topped the stew pot off with its dented lid.

Jory had spent most of his time that past month with Jordan and had begun to see the older teen as his friend. It hurt him to hear Jordan behaving so jealously. “Look, it probably seems cool that I get to go out there while you’re here, cooking for your mom and dad. But for what it’s worth, you’re doing an important job taking care of your family. Me, the whole camp is my family, you know? I don’t have my parents, I don’t have my sister, anymore. My whole home is…” He closed his eyes as flashes of memories swung through his mind of the Institute and what it had been.

Jordan nodded moodily but did not reply. Jory swallowed and said nothing more. He picked up his jacket and made his way to the outer gate.

_It’s not_ my _fault Jordan has to cook and organize all day. He didn’t have to be such a jerk._

The wind picked up, and Jory glanced skyward to see a radiation storm about to blow in from the direction he was headed. The idea that the wasteland had an atmospheric climate remained interesting, to him. Weather was simply not taught as a formal subject in the Institute, since they never had any. He zipped his jacket over his hoodie, made a point of pulling up the collar and directed his way back towards Malden. The rain remained steady as he drew up to the ruined convenience store, across the road from the alley featuring the dead drop. The patter of the raindrops hitting the pavement, pinging off old windowsills and roofs, splattering against ancient metal signage, all made for a natural muffle to his own footsteps. The downside being, it muffled any other footsteps that may have been approaching, too. Jory tucked himself into a dry corner beneath a fallen wall, feeling miserable.

_Tally one up for my ancestors, for avoiding this kind of nastiness for centuries._ The air temperature continued to drop as the rain fell, causing Jory to be thankful for his extra layers of the gifted hoodie underneath his jacket. He exhaled, his breath a quickly dispersing cloud, and focused his gaze on the dead drop box. It looked as miserable as he felt, dented and forever fused into the other rubble around it, with no protection from the rain pelting it from above.

_It’s only a pre-war mailbox. Get it together, Jory._ He slipped the strap of his bag up and over his head and set it onto the ground. He didn’t dare look inside it just yet, avoiding finding out whether all of his things were soaked until afterwards. He looked slowly between both major directions, straining his ears for footsteps and voices. After a few minutes of concentration, he heard neither, and assumed himself to be in the clear. Jory dashed out from under the fallen wall to the dead drop and pulled it open. The hinge made a metallic squawk, something that didn’t happen the last time he opened it. He extracted the collection of papers inside, and tucked them into a pocket inside his jacket before galloping back across the road to all but dive under the dry shelter of the fallen wall.

Hidden from the road and sheltered by the rain, Jory carefully pulled the papers back out of his jacket. There were only two notes, their content strictly business. They read:

 

HEARD INSTALLATION OF NEW MODULE WAS SUCCESSFUL. MAKE SURE TO UPDATE YOUR SOFTWARE!

 

and:

 

YOU FORGOT YOUR UMBRELLA. LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU WANT TO MEET FOR LUNCH NEXT, AND I’LL BRING IT TO YOU.

 

Jory inhaled and exhaled slowly. He knew the dead drop messages had to be written in thinly-veiled riddles so that sensitive information wouldn’t be revealed to a passing scavenger. He and Deacon had spent a few hours going over basic communiqué and the different ways they could be construed so as not to be direct, or obvious. He could almost hear Deacon reminding him with a smile, “but don’t overthink it.”

He was fairly certain the first was a reminder for him to write to the dead drops, with the reassurance that the Railroad had somehow found out he got in with the Puritans, safely. “Huh,” he puffed aloud. Knowing that they knew he wasn’t dead was more relieving than he expected.

The second note took him a little longer to decipher. He knew that none of it was to be taken literally, but he couldn’t shake his fixation on the segment ‘meet for lunch.’ Did that mean the dead drop, again? What could he have possibly left at the training yard that someone would want to return to him?

Jory set both notes down onto the ground and leaned his head back into the corner made by the fallen wall and portion that remained. He was glad for the relative safety of his little spot that was also dry. Not having to check down the road every few minutes or so was a relief.

He opened his eyes and threw himself to sit upright. _That must be it._ Jory picked up the second note and read it for the nth time. _It’s an extraction code. It’s how I ask to come home. The umbrella is just a red herring, or maybe, like a symbol of safety._ He grinned, feeling proud of himself, but it quickly vanished as his next thought was on how to craft a coded message in return.

_Well, what were you going to tell them, anyway? “Secret hideout underground, haven’t been inside it yet. Got a new hoodie. Let me know if you need some baby formula”?_  

He took another slow breath to try and calm his frustration and listened to the rain. The storm seemed to have continued by on its journey north, leaving the immediate outside wet slick, dripping, and humid. He chose to just stick to basic facts. He turned over the first note and simply stared at the back of the aged paper for several moments. Eventually, he came up with the following:

 

_software updated but still can’t connect to the network_

_working on identifying the outlets manually, causing delay_

_the solution seems buried deeper than expected_

 

Jory scrunched up his nose as he re-read his note a third time, then sighed and folded it to leave behind in the dead drop. He worried it was both genius but perhaps cryptic as well. _I guess the worst case scenario is they can’t make any sense out of my notes and the call me in to ask directly. Meanwhile, I better get working on that ammo cache._

He sprung out from under the makeshift shelter to leave his message in the dead drop, then went back for his bag. The old bag, handed down in his family since before the war, must have been treated at some point, since it managed to keep his things dry after all. He tucked his pencil back in and was fastening it up when he froze. The footsteps were practically on top of him.

_Oh fuck oh no oh shit! Something’s snuck up on you, Jory, how are you gonna get out of this?!_

Three figures appeared next to the fallen wall. Jory knew immediately why their approach didn’t set off any alert signals in his brain: gathered before him were two Gen 1 synths, and one Gen 2, the familiar footsteps of which he had heard around him for most of his life. They stood there idly, almost aimlessly. Jory slowly crawled out from beneath the wall and stood in front of them.

“WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND?” spoke the Gen 2. It stood just in front of the other synths. Jory took it to mean its designation was higher.

Jory looked between the three synths. He was overwhelmed with several feelings. In the Institute, these types of synths never engaged with him, other than to occasionally offer an acknowledgement as he passed them by in a hallway. Otherwise, they were directly subordinate to elders, controlled by the mainframe network.

“WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND?” the Gen 2 prompted again.

_This is really happening!_ “Holy shit,” he slipped.

“INVALID,” responded the Gen 2. “UPDATE REQUIRED.” It paused, before speaking again. “CENTRAL MAINFRAME IS OFFLINE. UPDATE UNAVAILABLE. WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND?”

Jory took a breath, butterflies soaring and bouncing around in his stomach. He cleared his throat. “State your business.”

“AFFIRMATIVE. DEFAULT DIRECTIVE, PATROL AND SECURE. CENTRAL MAINFRAME IS OFFLINE. UPDATE UNAVAILABLE. WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND?”

There were so many questions. The entire situation was extremely confusing. “Why are you here?”

“DEFAULT DIRECTIVE, PATROL AND –“

“Yeah, yeah,” Jory interrupted. “I mean, why are you _here_? Why are you talking to me?”

“CALL SIGNAL DETECTED FROM ORIGIN, CURRENT COORDINATES. OVERRIDE DEFAULT DIRECTIVE, RETRIEVE NEW ORDERS.” The synth shifted, as though it were annoyed at the line of questioning. “WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND?”

“I didn’t call you,” Jory replied. “How did you find me? Is it…something in my bag?”

All three synths turned their robotic gaze to the leather purse and paused, then returned to an idle gaze. The Gen 2 responded. “NEGATIVE. CALL SIGNAL EMITTED FROM YOUR PERSON, SIR.”

“That’s not possible, I’m not carrying any tech.”

“NEGATIVE. CALL SIGNAL ORIGIN FROM YOUR PERSON. SIGNAL STRENGTH: 97.2%.”

Jory fell silent. What could that even mean? “Define the call signal.”

“GENERAL BROADCAST, ENCRYPTED SIGNAL, CLASS BETA. ALL SYNTHS WITHIN SIGNAL RANGE TO APPROACH FOR NEW ORDERS.” It shifted again. “SECOND SIGNAL, HIGHER FREQUENCY, SHORTER RANGE, CLASS ALPHA. REMOTE OVERRIDE UPLINK AVAILABLE.”

“Wait, hang on – define the second signal.”

The Gen 2 shifted its gaze. Jory imagined it would blink, if it had more human expressions. “CLASS ALPHA. REMOTE OVERRIDE UPLINK,” it repeated.

_I might regret this._ “Demonstrate.”

“AFFIRMATIVE.”

A humming buzz began between Jory’s ears, before engulfing his entire body. He blinked, but when he opened his eyes, it was as though he were looking back out into the world from inside of a terminal. Various notifications blinked in his field of view, an assortment of digital readouts, but none of them made sense to him.

_Yes, they do. That one’s the ambient temperature and wind direction. That one there is a compass, with the current coordinates. Over there is battery level and damage status._

His eyes widened. He looked back up at the Gen 2 synth. Just as he was thinking about what to say next, he saw a logic string pop up at the bottom of his field of view. An instruction appeared that said “PROMPT.”

“WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND?” the Gen 2 asked, yet again.

“What does this mean?” Jory breathed. He had the answer before the Gen 2 spoke, the search and retrieve scrolling up into his view.

“CONTROLLER HAS EXCLUSIVE RIGHT TO BYPASS DEFAULT PROTOCOLS. OPTION TO OVERRIDE MOVEMENT. OPTION TO LAN NEARBY OPERATIVES. OPTION TO COMMUNICATE OVER DISTANCE WITH INSTRUCTIONS, REMOTELY.”

“Demonstrate!”

“AFFIRMATIVE. MOVEMENT OVERRIDE, INITIATED.”

Jory took another breath. System updates were scrolling onto his vision. _Lift your right arm,_ he thought-commanded towards the Gen 2. It did.

_Lower it._ Command followed.

Jory frowned. He wasn’t sure how useful that would be, considering how inefficient it was. _Can’t I just override from within, move like I do my own body? Making the thought to move and waiting for the response is just cumbersome._

“AFFIRMATIVE,” came the verbal response from the Gen 2. Before he knew what was happening, a jolt like a large static shock rocked Jory’s body. Next thing he knew, he was watching his eyes roll into the back of his head from the perspective of the Gen 2, and his body fall onto the ground. He reached forward and saw the synth’s hands probe out front of its body, to touch his human form, and roll it over.

_Disengage! Disengage, right now!_

He opened his eyes and gasped. The expressionless face of the Gen 2 loomed over him.

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

Jory’s pulse was hammering through his veins. “Y-yes. Help me up.”

One of the Gen 1s turned and looked towards the intersection where he had encountered Rocky’s caravan all those weeks ago. “INCOMING,” it buzzed.

“What? What’s coming?”

“SENDING VISUAL.”

An image appeared before Jory’s mind’s eye. A caravan was coming down that main road, starting to emerge into the intersection. Jory couldn’t tell who the trader was from the transmitted image.

The Gen 2 pulled Jory to his feet. “WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND?”

“I…I don’t know,” he replied, starting to feel panicked.

“INVALID. UPDATE REQUIRED. CENTRAL MAINFRA—“

“Yes, yes, I know, shut up,” Jory burst out, flustered. “I need to think.”

“T-MINUS SEVEN SECONDS BEFORE CONFIRMED VISUAL CONTACT,” offered the other Gen 1.

_This is bad this is bad oh this is so bad._ He ran his hands back and forth through his hair as his mind worked as fast as it could to figure out a solution. _I can’t be caught talking to synths. It will blow my cover, or get me tortured, or dead, or worse._

_But what do I do? I can’t just…_

The three synths stared at him, saying nothing. Jory gulped. There was no other choice.

_That caravan is probably going to the Puritans, anyway. If I chase them off, they will end up delayed with their arrival, and maybe set the Puritans back a little, too. I stay alive, it looks like a random synth attack, no one suspects a thing._

“COMMAND?”

Jory replied with no hesitation. “Engage.”

“AFFIRMATIVE.” All three synths raised their weapons in spooky synchronicity, turned, and ran with frightening speed towards the caravan. Jory scrambled back underneath the fallen wall and made himself completely unseen. When he closed his eyes, he could see the transmitted image updates from the Gen 2.

What happened next was completely unimaginable, even after everything he’d heard from Puritans and others alike. The synths showed no mercy, moving in and shooting the caravan on sight. The Gen 2 provided instant feedback, but it was also connected to the two Gen 1s, and received their battle info as well. For the most part it looked like smoke, laser fire, blood splatter, and occasionally the twitching view of the synth taking fire. He didn’t get the audio feedback from the synth, but he could hear the fight from where he cowered. There was screaming as the laser weapons severed some limbs and wounded others, taunting in the robotic synth voices, grunts, battle calls, and the distressed cawing of the pack brahmin.

One of the Gen 1s fell. He didn’t see or hear it, but the instant feedback report showed it as so. The Gen 2 was taking damage but holding its own, and the other Gen 1 lost use of one of its arms and sustained heavy damage to its midsection. Jory plugged his ears in an attempt to stop hearing the fight, but it was no use. The feedback from the Gen 2 was clear, and immediate. Both caravan guards had fallen, one decapitated, the other out of commission with wounds likely to kill him. The remaining fighter, which Jory guessed was the trader, seemed to be trying to fall back but kept reloading and shooting at the synths.

It felt like years, but finally the sounds of battle ceased and were replaced with the approaching footsteps of the synths returning to Jory’s little hideout. He emerged to meet them. The Gen 1 that remained was shooting sparks off its body, not unlike the one encountered as he and Ethan Holly had made their way back to the camp from the old daycare. The Gen 2 appeared to have sustained a few bullet holes, but its system report showed generally an all clear.

“COMMAND?” the Gen 2 prompted, as if on cue.

“Disengage all connections. Now.” Jory wanted nothing more to do with being able to see the inner workings of a synth. His body buzzed with a static shock once more, and the digital information was gone.

“AFFIRMATIVE. WHAT ARE YOUR ORDERS?”

“Don’t you get it? Leave me alone! This, all this, could be really bad for me! Turn off whatever it is calling you to me and just…just go away, okay? The Institute is gone forever. We can’t go home. We can never go home.” His voice cracked unexpectedly.

The Gen 2 didn’t immediately respond. Jory thought he could almost hear the electronic relays communicating between each other within its head. “NEGATIVE. THIS UNIT CANNOT DISABLE CALL SIGNAL. OVERRIDE THETA OMEGA REQUIRED.”

“That’s not funny.   Disable the homing beacon right now and call it a day.”

“NEGATIVE. OVERRIDE THETA OMEGA REQUIRED. DO YOU HAVE THE PASSCODE?”

Jory blinked. “What? Of course I don’t. I didn’t even know I was carrying that tech.” He sighed. _The synths were built a little too well._ “I have your orders.”

“PROCEED.”

“Go north. There’s a military checkpoint with a sentry bot. Engage the bot. Also, you and the other synth,” Jory gestured towards the Gen 1, “are to complete this task and go back to your default. You do NOT follow the call signal override, ever again. I must be authorized to issue _that_ command?”

The Gen 2 hesitated. “WE WILL ENGAGE THE SENTRY BOT AT THE CHECKPOINT. REVERT TO DEFAULT REQUIRES THETA OMEGA PASSCODE OVERRIDE. DO YOU HAVE TH—“

“Fucking hell – no, I don’t have the passcode,” Jory interrupted, exasperated. “Engage the sentry bot. Retreat forbidden. Understood?”

“AFFIRMATIVE.” The Gen 2 turned to nod at the Gen 1, then both synths plodded along the road towards the north.

Jory spent several moments with his mind swirling in a tornado of confusion. He realized that he needed help making sense of what happened, and if there were any true synth authorities he could ask, the Railroad was it. He pulled the second note from the inside of his jacket and dove into his bag for his pencil. On the back side of the paper, he wrote a single line, before folding it and tucking it into his last dead drop:

_let’s do lunch two days from now, meet me at the lake._


	7. Chapter 7

Jory sat at the only intact table in the pre-war diner called THE LAKEHOUSE and drummed his fingers against the aged Formica surface. On the outside, the only remaining letters from the original sign were LAKE. He’d come across it on his original journey from Malden to the Puritans compound, passing by as he had clomped along as an extra with Rocky’s caravan. 

The day was sunny as any other, and despite the rain that fell just days before, the earth and the air had soaked up all the moisture and left the atmosphere feeling dry, the wind, gritty. The diner smelled musty, even a little foul. The abandoned refrigerators, centuries empty, somehow retained all the scents of everything had had managed to spoil inside them. 

As the minutes ticked by, he hoped that his reference to the ancient diner wasn’t so esoteric as to miss the meeting with a Railroad envoy. With every tiny sound from outside, he perked up to look towards the door, only to see nothing. He drummed his fingers some more, trying to tap out a rhythm against certain points in the faded pattern, in an attempt to distract himself from the lack of visitor. 

He wondered how long he should stay. It had been almost three full days since he’d left the Puritans to move their ammo cache, and he would have to return by that evening to maintain his integrity. He glanced out the panel of broken windows once more, straining his eyes against the sunlight, and saw nothing. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice greeted him. Jory nearly hit the ceiling, jumping in his seat. Instead, both his knees smacked the underside of the table. He yelped in pain and in his surprise at the same time. 

“Shadow, geez, when the hell did you come in?” he asked the stealthy agent seated across from him once he’d gathered himself. 

“Just before I said, ‘hey,’” she replied, a bit of a mischievous grin on her face. “Sorry, Chip, I couldn’t resist, but maybe next time I will be more obvious.” The grin vanished and was replaced with a neutral expression, instead. She cut directly to the chase. “What’s going on?” 

“I…how do I start…?” Jory mused aloud. 

“Is everything okay? Do you need to come in?” 

“No, no! Well, unless _you_ think I should. I…” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he started with everything he knew. The damaged synth on the way back from the daycare. The entire event in Malden. He spoke for several minutes without breaking, and when he finished with describing how he placed his last message into the dead drop, he took another breath and wished he had some water. 

Shadow’s eyes grew progressively wider as Jory’s recounting went on and on. When he finished, she had no immediate reply. She glanced outside, her way of collecting her thoughts. Jory waited. Shadow watched as a few pieces of litter were carried up and around into the air on a passing breeze, then turned her attention back to Jory. “The synths are drawn to a signal you’re emitting, uncontrolably, to demand a new set of orders.” 

Jory spread his hands anxiously. “Yes. Yes! And I can’t turn it off, and neither can the synths. It’s high level encrypted and needs a passcode.” 

“Right,” Shadow replied. Jory found himself wringing his hands. “Not only can you give them instructions, but you can remotely overtake their functions, as well, from smaller distances.” 

“ _Yes,_ ” Jory confirmed, again. He leaned across the table towards Shadow, as closely as he was able. “I told them to attack a caravan, Shadow. I made them…made them kill innocent people!” 

“Don’t get caught up in that line of thinking, Microchip,” Shadow replied firmly. “You told them to engage the caravan. Those guards know full well the kinds of hostiles they could encounter in the wasteland, and if they hadn’t met you first, do you not think those synths would have attacked them on sight, regardless?” 

Jory trembled. “I don’t know,” he mumbled quietly. He had only heard stories. 

“Those synths were in the area, anyways. If not for your signal overriding their default directives, they would have clanked on and attacked the caravan at some point. I guarantee it.” She sat back and exhaled, then her expression softened. “Let’s focus, here. You told the synths to go north. What happened, then?” 

“I assume the Sentry Bot took them out. I found their wreckages within the checkpoint, once I arrived on the job.” 

“Okay. Okay, good,” Shadow nodded, glancing back outside. “Really, as harsh as it sounds, this is the best possible outcome from all that happened. There are no loose ends out of that caravan to even contemplate those synths were acting in any way but independently, and those synths themselves didn’t survive to track you down and put you in an awkward position when you aren’t expecting it.” 

“What do I do, now? What _should_ I do?” 

Shadow frowned, and looked back at Jory. “Stay true to your objective. You’re winning their favour and that can only lead to great opportunities. You’ve done nothing wrong.” She reached out and touched Jory on the arm. “If you want out, though, I can bring you back to HQ right now. If you’re, at all, beginning to doubt yourself or the mission –“ 

“N-no! Nothing like that. I…I just got a little…” 

“Rattled?” 

Jory nodded. _Besides, quitters don’t get to be called legendary._  

“That’s completely understandable.” Shadow sat back in her seat once more. “So, if you’re still committed to your assignment, perhaps a better question is, what are you going to do next time?” 

“What?” he blinked. 

“It seems reasonable to assume that you’ll be confronted by the re-programmed synths again, so maybe we should talk about some strategies that could lead to best outcomes.” 

Jory and Shadow talked for the remainder of the hour about different things he could tell the synths to do, to avoid them approaching the compound. They also had the difficult conversation about what his best course of action would be if one were to get close to the compound, or worse, be spotted talking to him. Jory’s mind was whirling once they’d wrapped up, full of strategies he would try to ingrain into his memory as he wandered back towards the compound. 

“You did the right thing, Chip. Don’t ever think otherwise. You put the best interests of the Railroad first. That’s not an easy thing to do, unless you’ve been doing it for years, like Desdemona, or Deacon.” Shadow reached over and squeezed Jory’s shoulder, offering him a small smile. “Keep it up.” 

Jory nodded. “Okay, thanks,” he replied quietly. 

“I have to take off. Was there anything else?” 

“Yes, just one thing.” Jory plunged his hand into his bag and retrieved another scrap of paper, then offered it over to Shadow. “The caravans, types and schedules. Everything I saw. It didn’t seem like much, so I didn’t dead drop it, last time.” 

Shadow took the page with both hands, holding it as if it were about to shatter. “This is incredible,” she breathed. “We’ve been trying to nail this down for months!” 

He rubbed the side of his face, feeling bashful. “Oh, come on –“ 

“No, really. This is exactly what Dez wanted from you.” 

“It’s just names, and dates…” 

“It’s much, much more than that. Leave this to us.” 

He frowned. “What are you going to do with it, though?” 

“Don’t worry about it. I need to get it back to HQ. Take care, alright?” Before he knew it, Shadow had melted into the alley beside the diner and was gone. 

He returned to the main compound without incident, though he brooded the entire time. Jory worried the Railroad were going to starve out the compound, caravan by caravan, and he was deply conflicted. 

_You knew that was the plan the whole time, that your role was to give the Railroad that kind of information and they would strike to end the fight in their favour. You can’t change the terms. You’re the agent, you don’t make the decisions._

_I didn’t think I’d like any of them, though. I didn’t think that most of them were just regular people._

_They’re not regular people. They hate synths and most of them would personally destroy the Institute all over again, given the opportunity. Stay focused._  

Jory was met at the main gate and was escorted straight to the inner bunker. Oscar Holly met him in that main room, once more. 

“Ira, good to see you! Got that ammo cached away for us, I expect?” 

“Yes, sir, I did, sir.” 

Oscar hit his fist into his hand. “Excellent. Perfect timing, too, we need to mobilize and the extra bullets are never bad to have.” 

Jory nodded and was about to offer some neutral response, when his stomach let out a tumultuous growl. His face was instantly red. _I never actually_ ate _lunch…_  

“You hungry, then, Ira?” Oscar asked, offering the teen a curious look. 

“Um…yes, sir.” He wasn’t going to try and lie his way out of that one. 

Oscar motioned for him to approach. “I need to go back downstairs in a second, but why don’t you just come down with me? Mandy will have something decently edible on the stove by now, I’m sure. Plus, Ethan’ll be glad to see ya. Just don’t tell him I said that, he’ll deny it.” 

Jory’s eyes widened. He was really being invited into the inner chambers of the bunker, where all their secret strategy meetings happen! He trembled, slightly. _Just keep it cool, Jory._  

The klaxon for the heavy inner door went off. Oscar beckoned for Jory to follow him. Jory expected the door to lead directly into another room, but instead, it opened into a stairwell lit by LEDs inlaid in the wall, leading down. Oscar stopped at the top of the stairs and hit a round, green button that caused the door to shut behind them and the klaxon to cease. 

“How did you guys get into this place? I mean, if the door is shut behind you.” Jory tried to sound casually curious. 

“Fortunately for us, the corpse of some egghead had a valid key card on it. Once we’d got in and figured out how to open the door from the inside, we busted it so no one could come in unannounced,” Oscar explained. 

“That buzzer sure makes it obvious someone’s coming in, though, don’t you think? It surprised me the first time I heard it.” Jory glanced back to observe Oscar’s reaction. The older Holly just shrugged.

A steel security door with a heavy handle stood at the bottom of the stairs. Oscar reached past Jory to turn the handle and pushed the door outward and motioned Jory through. The stairs spilled into another corridor, better lit than the stairwell itself. Oscar walked through the hall, around the corner, and into another room. Jory was presented with a room full of lockers and benches. They navigated the ruined locker room to the other side and through a door labelled SENIOR OFFICERS ONLY. A smaller, more finely finished looking locker room was on the other side. Two doors led into different areas of the bunker. One was labelled OFFICES, and the other, TRAINING CENTER. They went through to the offices.

The interior of the bunk appeared to have aged extremely well, and reminded Jory more of the Institute rather than the other run down and destroyed places he’d encountered in the wasteland. His heart fluttered at that thought and he tried to stuff down the feelings of homesickness that welled up in him. _This place is just a final echo from the very distant past. It’ll be gone like the Institute, some day._

The Hollys had set up the abandoned desks still in useable condition into a horseshoe shape in the middle of the room. Along the walls were various posters, including a hand-drawn map of the Commonwealth as a whole. One of the corkboards was covered in small, hand written notes, but Jory didn’t want to be caught staring. Ethan Holly was stooped over a bowl of soup. There were six other people in the room, none of whom were familiar to Jory.

“Mandy, get Ira somethin’ to eat!” Oscar barked into the room, then pointed to a nearby chair. “You just make yourself comfortable,” he almost purred to Jory, before turning his attention back into the room and barking out, again: “someone get him a Nuka Cola!”

“Hey, Ira, you’re back! And…you’re here!” Ethan gushed, sounding more surprised with the latter statement than the former.

Jory nodded shyly. “Mr. Holly invited me down.”

“Kid got our ammo cache secured and had a stomach rumble that would frighten a super mutant,” Oscar grinned. He sounded proud. Jory wasn’t exactly sure why. “I couldn’t just send him back out into camp, especially since he’s done us great service, lately.”

“It’s just a bowl of soup,” Mandy muttered, drawing up to Jory’s left side and setting down a chipped ceramic bowl full of hot broth, simple noodles, and root vegetables.

It smelled divine. Jory turned to thank Mandy and had to choke down an audible gasp from escaping his throat. She had a dark, haggard scar from what had been a deep gash from the bottom of her right jaw straight up into her forehead, and was missing the eye. Otherwise, he thought he was looking at his sister, Mirabel. The hair colour, the shape of her frame, all of it was uncanny.

_It can’t be. She just_ looks _like Ira. What would_ she _be doing with the Puritans? None of that makes sense. I’m just homesick._

“For fuck’s sake, Mandy, you forgot to put yer eye patch on. You’ve nearly scared the kid half to death,” Ethan chuckled.

“N-no, I was just…surprised,” Jory murmured, feeling embarrassed. To his relief, Mandy shrugged.

“You didn’t seem to care if I was wearing it or not when I was sharing your bunk last night, slugger.” She walked back into the small kitchen as Ethan blushed and the rest of the room laughed and hollered. Jory put his full attention into the soup, blushing harder. He jumped, again, as someone plunked a bottle of Nuka Cola next to him. The cap had been taken off of it already, causing some of the soda to jump out of the top and spray sugar loaded fizz all over the desk.

“POP, just like that, eh kid? Am I right? She’s missin’ an eye but everything else works, I’d wager,” jeered a man who couldn’t have been taller than Jory himself. He had fine, dark hair, Asian facial features, and pockmarked skin. “She’s smart, too. You could do way worse out there, and I should know, because I _have_.”

“Shove off, Loren, he’s only thirteen. You’re making him uncomfortable,” Oscar replied, pushing the Asian man away.

“So what?” Loren continued. “My first time was when I was twelve.”

“No one gives a shit. Besides, we need to talk about our next move. Sit your asses down, all of you.”

Loren and the four other people still standing found their way to the desks and did as they were told. Ethan sucked the rest of the broth out of his bowl before tossing it down in front of him and turning his attention to his older brother. Oscar walked over to the map of the Commonwealth, stared at it for a moment, then pinned an area up to the north next to the river. “The question now could be, do we just send a couple runners to strongback that ammo back to camp, or do we swing the troops by to basically arm themselves with it en route to their assignment?”

Ethan leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands up behind his head. “That ammo cache is just not in the direction of anything we’ve got planned, is all. It would add almost an entire day’s travel time to get there, get the stuff, and then walk back and finally get onto the right direction.”

“The travel is inevitable. We have to send a few people out there to get the ammo, anyways, which will probably take the good part of a day whether they’re grabbing it for an outfit or just bringing it back to our stock, here,” Oscar replied. “Ideally, that cache wouldn’t have been left behind causing us to use time and manpower to get it back.”

“That dumbass won’t be making that mistake again, I promise.”

“What’d you do?” asked one of the strangers. She was dark skinned and had waxed her short hair out in several directions.

Ethan flashed an evil grin. “Broke ‘is leg and threw him out of camp. I’m sure he’s long dead.”

“Nice,” the woman replied with a smile of her own.

Oscar shook his head. “That’s the first and last time we mutilate and cast out one of our own, like that. We’re not raiders.” He pulled a switchblade seemingly from out of nowhere and brandished it towards the others. “If anyone even attempts something like that again, you’ll find this knife sticking out of your chest.”

Ethan winked and made a kiss mime. Oscar ignored it. Loren piped up, instead. “Why didn’t you just get half pint to drag it back here with him? Seems like a waste to have sent him out there like you did, if he wasn’t gonna bring the shit back.”

Oscar silently hung the switchblade back onto his belt, walked over to where Loren was sitting, and landed an open-handed smack on Loren’s right temple. Jory shuddered, imagining the stars that Loren must have seen after a blow like that. He tried not to appear bothered and spooned a hunk of carrot into his mouth from his bowl.

“Our scout came back with second degree burns from whatever kind of laser weapon bullshit that Sentry Bot has on it, and you think it’s reasonable to suggest a thirteen year old kid, quiet and nimble enough to fucking smuggle the ammo out from under whatever passes for its nose, should have schlepped the whole cache back on his own? Ira!”

Jory jumped. “Y-yes, sir?”

“How many trips did it take you to get the full amount from the checkpoint, to where I told you to stash it?”

All eyes turned to him. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Four, sir.”

Oscar took a handful of Loren’s hair and pulled the man’s face close to his own. “You hear that? Four trips! We should’ve just sent him with a Brahmin, is that it?”

“Suh-sorry, Oscar, I was just shooting my mouth off, I didn’t know there was that much. If the kid really did all that, you’re right to bring him down here. Think of all the other places he could get into, bring us back some sweet loot.” Loren’s voice had taken something of a pleading tone.

Oscar flung Loren’s head to the side as he released his hair and stepped once more up to the map. “Already ahead of you. He more than proved himself at the Doom Daycare but this was the test to see that he could follow orders _and_ get the job done. I’ve got at least three other jobs I can think of for him, right now, but he has earned some rest.” He offered a nod in Jory’s direction.

“Thank you,” he murmured softly, returning to his soup. Oscar continued talking but Jory found it impossible not to tune him out. He knew he should be paying attention, but there was too much flowing through his mind. He’d been through a lot in the past couple of days, and suddenly his mind was fixated on Mandy, who resembled his sister so much.

_It’s not impossible for it to be her, but why would she change her name? It’s not like she’s working undercover, and it’s not like her real name ties her back to the Institute. Plus, she’d have had a lot to learn about cooking…though she was always pretty smart, so as long as someone was teaching her, she’d learn just about anything._

_You just want it to be her, because you’re tired, homesick, and a little scared. Stay focused._

His head jerked back suddenly as he snorted himself awake. His hand jolted and flicked his spoon onto the floor with a clatter. All the adults in the room turned to look at him. “Eheh,” he chuckled nervously. “Sorry…”

“The cupcake’s wiped,” Ethan remarked. Oscar nodded.

“I bet. Been a busy few days for him. Mandy!”

The young woman reappeared from the small, pre-war office kitchen. “What?”

Oscar waved a dismissal. “Show Ira to a bunk. We’ll catch up with him later.”

Mandy shrugged. “Whatever.” She pointed back towards the kitchen. “That way.”

Jory swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.” He followed her through the kitchen and then into a long hallway that took them past the war room and back towards the training facility. Jory glanced in to see lines of people wearing helmets attached into the ceiling with wires, all doing odd things like jumping on the spot, swinging their arms, or holding imaginary guns. He turned his attention back to Mandy who hadn’t noticed he had stopped to gawk.

“This place seems to have been designed to keep people from leaving. The regulars sleep in the camp, but everyone else bunks down here. Watch your step, there, someone left a grenade lying out.” Mandy kicked the unarmed bomb back into the storage closet it had emerged from. Jory looked in to see the small closet completely packed with all sorts of guns, knives, ammo, and explosives, including a small collection of armour pieces. His heart rate jumped and he moved past the locker as quickly as he could.

“What happened to your eye?” he asked, trying to casually change the subject.

“Business end of a mole rat claw,” she replied.

It felt like time slowed down, then, as his mind started to make connections he didn’t want to imagine. _Mole rats are everywhere. It doesn’t mean this is Mirabel! Why hasn’t she suggested you look familiar, either? Would she forget her own brother?_

Mandy nudged him. “Geez, you okay, kid? You look like you’re about to pass out. Had a bad experience with mole rats, or somethin’?”

“Oh, no.” Mandy’s voice had zapped him back to reality. “You, uh, look like someone I knew before,” Jory admitted.

“Sure. I’ve heard that before.”

“No, really!”

Mandy shrugged and pointed to a bunk at the far end of the room. Some of the others had personal affairs strewn about, but that one was empty. “Should be quiet enough for you back there. You need to wash up or somethin’?”

“I’m okay,” he answered, then reconsidered. “Actually, where’s the bathroom?”

Jory lay curled up on his bunk, relatively comfortable considering the circumstances. He had tucked himself under the sheet and blanket and was facing the wall. If Mandy had been his sister, he had lost the chance to ask, while she also seemed to have behaved entirely as though she had never met him before. _Coincidence. That’s all. Just coincidence._  

He drifted off, fidgeting with the plastic beads on that aged bracelet.


	8. Chapter 8

Jory had a different dream, that night. He was outside, but his field of view was like that of the synth’s, with digital readouts scrolling and updating in various spots. He wandered the wasteland, evaluating every insect, every tree, every body of water that he could find. At some point he looked down and saw his body was not his own, but that of a Gen 1, all metal, wires, and plastic casing.

He jolted awake. As he caught his breath, he recognized the painted concrete wall of the Puritan’s compound inner bunker, dimly lit by a lantern left by the door to the hallway. Jory closed his eyes and rolled onto his back, when he realized he could hear voices. He smacked his lips in some comical expression of being fast asleep, sighed, and metered his breaths, hoping no one would suspect he had, in fact, woken up.

Jory couldn’t put the voices to faces, especially as they employed hushed tones, but he could only assume they belonged to the members of the Hollys’ inner horseshoe.

“…I’m telling you, something about him is just fucking _annoying_ , you know?” complained one of the voices.

“The fuck do you even care?” hissed a second voice. “He ain’t a threat to you, not at the horseshoe, not anywhere. He’s got a job, like the rest of us.”

Jory stiffened out of reflex. _Are they talking about me?_

“Used to be _my_ job, Rent, or did you forget that?”

“Shut up,” groaned the second voice, presumably Rent’s. Jory could hear the shifting of linens, and imagined Rent rolling over in the bunk. “It was your job until you got two people killed on the baby formula heist, and you know it. You lied to them about how good you are with getting around robots, and it’s come to bite you in the ass. Suck it up and move on.”

“Okay, fine – the kid can have the fetch jobs. I was gettin’ tired of playing dog, anyways,” replied the first voice.

Jory willed his heart to beat slower, and kept his breathing steady. They certainly were talking about him, but it sounded more like a jealous blowing off of steam. _Sounds like the stupid things my old classmates used to whine about, during class breaks._

Rent spoke again. “Good, so you’ll shut up, now?”

“Nah,” replied the first voice. “Somethin’ is still off. I was outside last week when Lina’s caravan came in, heard their guards talking to our guards.”

Rent groaned. “So what?”

“The caravan guard was askin’ our guy about the kid. Said he looked like a bus boy from Diamond City, worked in the Dugout for months. Guard was convinced it was him.”

This time, there was no wilful slowing of Jory’s heart. He swallowed, kept his breathing steady, and rolled back onto his side to face the wall.

“I still don’t know why you care,” Rent sighed.

“That’s ‘cuz you’re a Buffout-bloated sack of muscles with no brains, idiot. Our guy, he goes into how it can’t be the same kid. Our Ira grew up on a farm, family shot to death by synths. He never said nothin’ about some job in Diamond City.” The first voice sounded very self-satisfied.

“Big deal.” Rent seemed to ignore the other person’s insult. “Maybe he tried out a job in Diamond City, bought himself some supplies, thought he’d find his way here. Or…”

“Yeah? Or what?”

“Or it’s a different damn kid. Shut up and go to sleep, already.”

There was a rustling from the direction of the first voice. “I don’t know. That bus boy ain’t there no more, now a kid that looks just like him is here? What’re the chances of that, seriously?”

“Did you tell the boss?” Rent asked after a moment of quiet.

Another pause. “Yeah.”

“Well? And?”

“He didn’t care. Told me that Ira might’ve lied about his family gettin’ killed by synths because otherwise we probably would’ve just tossed him out.”

Rent shifted in his bunk once more. “Yeah, we probably would’ve. The whole camp is barely scraping by and we ain’t a babysitting service. And he’s doing us a much better service playing fetch for us, than for that scum licker Vadim.”

“I guess. The boss has some kind of soft spot for him, is seeing things through, like through gold coloured glasses.”

“ _Rose_ coloured glasses,” Rent corrected.

“If any of us lied to him about anything, ever, we’d get a pounding.”

Rent sighed, exasperated. “God, you just won’t shut up, will you? Let it go, Loren. They both like the kid and want him around, so that’s how it has to be. If you want to challenge that further, that’s _your_ death wish.” His next statement sounded muffled, as though he’d buried himself underneath the blanket. “Now let me get some fucking sleep, already.”

Jory lay awake for quite some time after the other two men had begun to snore. His mind churned with the thought of a caravan passing through recognizing him from the Dugout, and if that could possibly escalate, with or without Loren’s help. So many people went through those double doors in the handful of months he worked there, it was hard to imagine any of them recognizing him like that – especially in the state most of them were when they _left_ the bar.

He wondered if he should tell the Railroad. The possibility that an outsider might accidentally blow his cover seemed like a big deal, one requiring some guidance. On the other hand, if he started acting nervous or “out of the ordinary,” that could set Loren off worse.

No. He had to stick to the job. The Puritans were about to move out again, and Jory could only guess that their target was some kind of Railroad holding, somewhere.

Next was to find out where, and try to warn the Railroad, in time.

When he dreamed next, it was about Mirabel. He woke up feeling sad and homesick. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, feeling disoriented about the time of day. He climbed out of the bunk, picked up his jacket and purse, and silently walked through the length of the room and into the hallway.

Something was cooking in the kitchen. Jory followed his nose towards the smells, and paused again at the training room. It was empty. The unoccupied helmets dangled from the ceiling. Jory shuddered in its creepiness and moved on. Mandy was in the little kitchen, scraping some food around in a pan over the gas stove.

“That thing still works?” he exclaimed before he realized he was thinking aloud. “I didn’t even think about it, yesterday.”

Mandy smirked and offered him a quick glance before taking the pan off the flame and turning it off. “These military bunkers were top priority for resources after the bombs fell. They work almost entirely like they did pre-war. Electric generators, natural gas, the kinds of things that if they break, most folk have no idea how to get it workin’ again.” She dished out the food onto a couple of plates, then pulled out a third and portioned the remaining onto it before handing the last plate to Jory. “You okay? You look…unsettled. Did you not sleep well?”

“Thanks,” Jory said as he accepted the plate. It looked like some kind of combination of scrambled eggs, canned ham, and tatos. “I slept fine. I…had a dream about home, and it made me miss it. I’ll be okay.”

“Aw. Well, the big boys will be glad to see ya. Heard them fightin’ over what job to give ya next. Come on, they’re waiting.” Mandy picked up the other two plates and led him into the war room. Ethan Holly stood facing the map, while Oscar sat at a desk, hair unbound, cleaning beneath his nails with a knife. “Breakfast,” she declared emotionlessly, and crossed the room with the plates.

“About time,” Ethan drawled, turning from the map and taking a chair next to Oscar, who himself looked up and brightened at the sight of Jory.

“Good morning, cupcake,” he smiled at Jory, pulling the chair next to him out from the desk and waving the teen over. “Hope you got a good rest. We were talking, and we need to send you back out there right away.”

“I don’t mind,” Jory replied as he got into the chair. He scooped a mouthful of egg into his mouth and chewed slowly. The food was greasy and the texture of the egg was a little unpleasant, but it tasted good, and he was hungry. “What’s happening? Something wrong?”

Oscar gave a quick shake of his head as he took a bite of his own food. His hair being down gave him a more relaxed look than Jory was used to seeing. “Not really wrong, just that we’ve been a little more idle than we’d like for the past month, and we need to keep up our choke hold on the Railroad if we’re gonna win this little spat we’ve got goin’ on with them.” He swallowed, then took a sip of his coffee. “Last time we hit ‘em at a new outpost where they were spyin’ on us, those dicks. Problem is, our guy on the inside got offed in the raid, didn’t get out in time and the people we dispatched didn’t know we were workin’ the gig.”

_The mole!_ “That sucks,” Jory offered, his mouth full of egg and meat. He nearly quivered in his excitement of the update. Desdemona would be relieved that the mole was taken out in the raid and not actually lurking within HQ.

“Yeah, in a lot of ways. We got a little addicted to having a line on the inside. Going back to feeling deaf has not been easy,” Ethan added, scraping a piece of canned ham around his plate.

Jory posed his next question very carefully. “Are you saying you want me to…join the Railroad, somehow?”

Oscar immediately burst out laughing. “What? Jesus fucking Christ, Ira, no. Send some kid into the ranks of our enemies? What kind of assholes do you take us for?” He wiped a tear from his eye and took another slurp of coffee. “That would just be…just _irresponsible._ ”

“Aha, yeah…what was I thinking?” Jory murmured, putting some more egg into his mouth and chasing it with a bite of tato.

“It’s not like _that_ ,” Oscar continued, his focus turned back to his food. “I’m sure if we had a job that would make you have to visit them, you’d do it just fine. I just wouldn’t make you have to live with the enemy, pretend to be on their side, all that shit. I have other things for you to do.”

“Targeting chip,” Ethan chimed in.

Jory finished off his portion and sat back from the desk. “A what?”

“Pre-war military technology, used in automatic targeting weapons like turrets and so on. Makes it easier for people handling larger weapons or, ah, equipment, to hit what they’re aiming at.” Oscar finished the portion of his own and bumped his plate away from himself, taking his coffee cup into both of his hands. “There’s a rusty set of power armour just rotting in a junkyard, east of here, past the stinky pyromaniacs in the old smelter. It’s one of those better models, at least, according to what we know about that shit, so it probably has a targeting card inside it.”

Ethan stood and pointed to the spot on the map. “Problem is, there’s an outpost of those Gunner turds sitting on it, literally.”

“Why haven’t they just taken the power armour?” Jory asked. “Aren’t they into that kind of stuff?”

“That’s more the Brotherhood’s style. Gunners _generally_ don’t mess with it, but in this case, it seems to be part of one of their higher up’s personal collection.”

“The place is a total mess. Our scout – you met him yesterday, Loren, the guy who teased you? – he counted at least six personnel, and they’re all armed.” Oscar swept his hair back and tied it behind his neck. “I don’t want to rush you, but, we need that targeting card kind of like yesterday, if you catch my meaning.”

Jory swallowed, then nodded. “I’ll…be as quick as I can.”

“Just don’t get yourself shot. Ask Richards for some food, too. We’ll see you in a few.”

Ethan waved. “Bye, Ira.”

Jory jogged up the stairs, his thin sneakers making a rhythmic patter of soft thuds on the concrete. He was nervous about having to navigate through two different, hostile groups, on top of retrieving the part. He’d never seen a targeting card before and neither of the Hollys offered to describe it, either. There was going to be quite a bit of improvisation on this run.

Jory pounded on the door release and heard the klaxon on the other side. Several locks released and the door swung open. He hit the button once more just before he stepped through and watched the door close.

“Hey kid,” Richards greeted him. He was working on his own morning coffee next to his cooking fire and appeared to be just barely awake. “Those boys sending you out again, already?”

“Yes, sir,” Jory replied. “Some part they need right away. Gunners have it, past the old smelter.”

Richards whistled. “That’s a hike, on top of being risky business. Give me a few minutes to get you rationed out.” He set his coffee cup down and stood to look into one of his nearby crates. He gave Jory a sidelong glance. “Do you want a gun? I won’t tell ‘em I gave it to you, if ya want.”

“O-oh! No, thanks,” Jory blushed. “But, can I borrow a screwdriver?”

Within twenty minutes, Jory was packed up once more and about to hit the road. He was starting to regret only washing his face the night before, and not electing for the full bath after all. His skin felt a little greasy and he hoped he didn’t smell as bad as he imagined. He had planned on avoiding Jordan’s camp entirely, for fear of an encounter, but he couldn’t shake the urge to at least change the shirt he wore under the hoodie.

Jordan was still sleeping, though his parents where nowhere to be seen. Jory did what he knew best and crept soundlessly to his duffle bag to retrieve a clean shirt. He glanced over his shoulder, then changed as quickly and quietly as possible. He stuffed the old shirt into the duffle and made to leave, looking over at his friend. Jory frowned. He left the bottle of Nuka Cola, given to him by Deacon all those weeks ago, sitting next to Jordan’s bag and hoped the older teen would see it as a sort of peace offering.

Jory’s mind was still churning over the best way to handle his friendship with Jordan, when he all but tripped over the slaughtered caravan, still laying in the intersection in Malden. The Brahmin had been stripped clean, and the bodies clearly picked over for their valuables, but otherwise they had been left on the road to rot. The stench was overwhelming. He gagged, then covered his mouth with one hand and plugged his nose with the other as a maggot crawled out of the mouth of the decapitated head.

Against all better judgment, Jory took off at full speed for his little hiding spot under the fallen wall and dove inside. He lay on the broken pavement for several breaths, hoping beyond hope that he could keep his breakfast where it had been put. He closed his eyes, breathing in through his nose, and out through his mouth.

He whimpered, and before he knew it, he had begun to cry. The emotional weight of the past few days had finally fallen on him so hard that he couldn’t hold it up, anymore. Interacting with the synths had sprung the slow leak of homesickness that turned into a gush with the uncanny resemblance of Mandy to his lost sister and his dreams from the night before.

After several minutes, his fit had run its course. Jory sat up and wiped his face on his sleeve as he sputtered out the last few sobs. He felt better, like something of a weight had been lifted off of him. _The sooner you help end this war, the sooner you get to make a new home somewhere, and tell everyone of all the dangerous stuff you did. Rita will flip._  

He wiped his eyes again, rooted around his bag for some paper, and prepared his message for the dead drop.

 

_found a mole chewing on the wires, it zapped itself before doing more damage_

_connected to the main network but file download remains slow_

_total of seven ports, still working out main functions of each_

Jory’s hand trembled as he tried to figure out how to say the Puritans were mobilizing once more, without using those exact words. He tried to think of something that fit the loose tech theme that had been running, but everything he conceived of seemed dumb. A bug in the system? New virus? 

Time was ticking. “God damn it,” he muttered, and finally scrawled:

 

_they’re planning a strike, target and timing unknown_

_high level weapon or gear requiring targeting card in the works_

 

He exhaled slowly. It would have to do. He convinced himself it still wasn’t overly obvious and left it at that. Jory crept to the drop box and opened it up, removed the message lying inside, and replaced it with his own. He unfolded the note:

 

PROGRESS EXCEEDING EXPECTATIONS. KEEP THE MODULE INSTALLED AND TAKE YOUR TIME ON THE NETWORK.

 

Jory nodded to himself, then ripped the note into tiny pieces and threw them into the street. _You say that, now._ He leaned over to check the street and saw it still deserted, then stepped out and veered back northeast towards the new assignment.

He took advantage of the bright, broad daylight, and stayed on the road. It was the opposite of discreet but much more efficient than tip-toeing through the brush and dead trees. He had to try and gain some time he spent detouring to the dead drop, after all.

Jory smelled the ironworks well in advance of seeing it. He paused to take a good look at his surroundings. Just up the road was a farmhouse, and beyond that, a large building with tall smokestacks blowing nasty looking smoke up into the clear, blue sky. He thought he could see the outer wall of the junkyard east of it. He took a breath. _Time to get off the road._ The young teen stepped off the ruined pavement and made a hard bearing due east, towards the crumbling remains of a raised highway. His plan to veer north and approach the junkyard from that direction sunk as fast as the rock he kicked into the river. He couldn’t swim, and wouldn’t want to get himself or his bag soaked, even if he could.

He needed a new plan. He followed the waterline under the shadow of the highway and hunkered down in a natural depression next to an ancient pillar of the now-irrelevant raised thoroughfare to observe the junkyard from the distance. It appeared as though the Gunners had fortified the junkyard and even taken over some of the highway it had backed on to, but unless he could learn to fly, or scrabble up the cement pillar, there was no way he could get into the junkyard from that direction. There was still the matter of crossing the water.

Jory kicked another rock out from behind the pillar and into the creek, feeling frustrated. If he had more time, he would observe the area for at least a couple of days, just to get the hang of the routines, possibly even try to get close by tailing a caravan and sneak in when the gang was distracted. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and sat onto the base of the pillar, staring at the junkyard from its shadow, willing the very sky to just drop the answer down onto his head.

“Sir –“

Jory yelped and nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned and found himself staring directly into the face of a woman, blonde hair pulled into a ponytail on the back of her head, clad completely in black from head to toe. She had knelt next to him and appeared completely unfazed by his surprise. “Shit,” he breathed, his heart still caught in his throat, “how did you – wait, how are you – you’re…a courser?”

“Affirmative. Designation X3-22. I was on the surface, sent off the mainland for a mission, when the Institute fell.” She nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

Jory gaped. “My…loss?” By reflex, he reached over and rubbed the beads of Mirabel’s bracelet.

“Indeed. The destruction of the Institute, our home, could not have been an easy ordeal for you. I’m pleased to see you survived. Your parents were structural engineers. I remember them. You look like your mother.”

He blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”

The courser continued. “I can’t say I’ve encountered many that managed to evacuate. Most likely fled the Commonwealth, or perhaps, they are hiding very well in plain sight, for fear of retribution.”

“Okay,” he replied. “What are you doing here?” He was certain he knew the answer, but wanted to hear it, regardless.

X3-22 tilted her head. It reminded him of the Gen 2 from a few days ago. “You’re emitting two radio signals, one of which is quite short-range. I picked them up as Institute frequencies and tracked you. I’ve been following you since you passed Malden.”

His stomach took a dive. “I…I see.”

“Why are you calling synths, and how do you have override capabilities?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I have…modifications, from before.” Jory swallowed and said no more.

“You carry within your body the technology to call and control synths, yet you are _not_ a synth,” she concluded. “Curious.”

“You’re telling me,” he sighed, leaning back against the pillar. “Look, X3, sorry you went through all that trouble to pin me down, but I can’t help you. I can barely help myself, right now.” Jory gestured towards the junkyard.

“Oh? Perhaps I could indeed be of assistance.” X3 stood and pulled out a pair of binoculars. As she looked towards the junkyard, Jory took a moment to stare at the courser. Her leathers were quite worn for wear, heavily creased, ripped, torn, even crudely patched in some places. “Stay here,” she instructed, tucking her binoculars away, “I will go get a closer look.”

“No, wait!” Jory protested, when suddenly she vanished from plain sight. His eyes widened as he watched mere distortions of the air move from the pillar, directly towards the edge of the junkyard. He could see no sign of her crossing the water. Just as Jory’s heart rate was returning to normal, he heard more footsteps approaching from the south. He turned to see a pair of Gen 1 synths coming towards him. “Well, great! It’s a whole fucking _party_ , now,” he groaned sarcastically. “What the hell is happening to my life…?”

The Gen 1s drew up to him and stood with their weapons pointing to the ground. “COMMAND?” they asked in unison. Jory waved them off.

“Get down and out of sight for a bit. The courser will be back at some point, and then I’ll figure out what to do with all of you.” He wiped another bead of sweat off his cheek and settled against the pillar in its shadow, opening up a bottle of water and taking a drink. His gaze was drawn towards the sky, watching wispy, formless clouds drift by. He closed his eyes as a breeze blew past his face, cooling the remaining sweat on his skin. He listened to distant birds, the creak of the ancient steel as it expanded in the sunlight, and the familiar hiss and whir of the Gen 1’s mechanical processes.

“Sir? Are you awake, sir?” the voice of X3-22 cut through the ambient sounds suddenly and from his left.

“I’m awake,” he confirmed, opening his eyes and taking another drink of water, paused, then offered the bottle to X3.

“Ah, thank you,” she replied, accepting the bottle and taking a small sip, before handing it back. “What is the purpose of going into that junkyard?”

“I need the targeting card off the power armour. Did you…go inside? Did you see the power armour?”

X3’s face remained expressionless. She flicked a stray hair off her armour with a gloved hand. “That junkyard is a Gunner holding. Were you aware of that?”

“Yeah, plus that symbol they paint on all their stuff made it pretty obvious.” Jory pointed at one of the cars on the top edge of the wall, turned onto its side, with the white icon of the faction on its roof. “How many of them are there?”

“Eight. Two commanding officers and the rest, just soldiers.”

“Hm. Okay –“

“Plus two automated and high level-ballistics turrets, aisles of piled garbage, and no standard cover, to speak of.” She crossed her arms. “You’re untrained, unarmed, and unguarded. For you to attempt infiltration would be suicide.”

“I’d have found a way,” he pouted, digging idly in the dirt next to him with his fingernails.

“The power armour belongs to one of the commanding officers and is kept on the upper level of their ugly little compound. I don’t know who sent you on to this task, but if they were aware of the amount of danger involved, it would seem as though they were deliberately trying to get you killed,” X3-22 concluded. She nodded towards the Gen 1s. “Did you call them?”

“Not purposely.” Jory shook his head. “The call beacon is one-way. I don’t receive signals.” _I sound like I’m a friggin’ radio._

The Gen 1s seemed to come alive as the conversation had turned towards them. “COMMAND?” they prompted in unison, once more.

“Stand down,” X3 immediately replied, then stopped herself and looked at Jory. “Wait, were they talking to you?”

“Probably,” he replied miserably. “I want to turn the signal off, but I don’t have the…” Jory trailed off and looked the courser in the eyes. “Do _you_ have a theta omega passcode?”

“Theta omega?” X3 repeated. “Never heard of it. I simply have basic hierarchical authority over the grunt synths.” She paused, then added, “the central mainframe –“

“—is offline. Yeah, I know that, too,” Jory finished by interrupting.

All three synths were quiet. Jory tapped his hands on his thighs, unsure how to proceed. X3-22 spoke up, first.

“Don’t be shy,” she said.

Jory blinked. “About what…?”

“About telling us to get that targeting card for you.” X3 pointed at the Gen 1s. “They’re wired to follow your frequency, and I am, by design and circumstance, subordinate to you.”

“Uh…I…”

“Sir,” X3 began quite firmly, “if you’re serious about acquiring that part, we’ll make sure you have it. Otherwise, you going in there on your own would not only be certain death for you, but a completely inefficient waste of resources.” She frowned. “You know as well as I that synths were never meant to wander without direction, indefinitely. You need a job done, and we’re equipped to do it.” He thought he heard a slight plea in her voice. “Please.”

Jory took a deep breath and looked between all three synths in front of him. _She really wants to do this._ “Is there anything you need?”

“No, sir. Just give me the order.”

“X3-22, take these two synths into that junkyard and retrieve the targeting card from the power armour.”

“Yes, sir.” X3 gestured to the Gen 1’s. “To me. You will lead the charge and engage the gunners.” She turned to Jory. “I suggest you conceal yourself. Their rifles have considerable range. It would not be ideal for you to catch a stray bullet.” X3 turned, her courser leathers swirling dramatically as she did so, and brandished her weapon, following the Gen 1’s running towards the junkyard. He watched the synths for a moment before huddling himself behind the pillar, as instructed.

Unlike the last time, he was sitting far enough away from the fighting that most of the sounds couldn’t be heard. Some louder noises, such as gunfire, and the occasional high-pitched shriek of pain, found their way to his eardrums. He closed his eyes and focused instead on figuring out a plan. Shadow had suggested he merely direct the synths away from him, to tell them to go the opposite direction from him until they were out of range of his signal. That strategy would potentially just buy him enough time to put distance between them.

The courser, though, was a complete surprise. The beacon didn’t call to her, but she had found the signal and chose to follow it.  Her AI was of an intensely higher sophistication than that of the Gen 1 and 2s, giving her the autonomy required to perform the duties of a courser operating on the surface. Jory wasn’t sure he’d be able to reason her out of giving up her designation and work as a caravan guard.

He heard footsteps in the grass and looked up, expecting X3-22. Instead, he jumped to see it was Loren. The man was grinning.

“Ira! It’s me, Loren, you remember?” he called. Jory stood and tried not to look as surprised as he felt.

“Yeah, from yesterday. I remember. What are you doing, here…?”

“So, kind of a funny story. I scouted out that power armour over in that auto wrecker’s, and when I told the big boys it was there with some Gunners, I _assumed_ they’d have known there’d be a number of them armed to the teeth.”

Jory wasn’t sure where Loren’s story was going. “Okay…”

“Now, they have needed a targeting card for some time, for that crazy gatling gun doodad that they want to get working, before they walk in to the Railroad HQ with everyone and just cut the whole lot of them assholes right down. So, when I told ‘em about that power armour, against better judgement they thought they’d just toss you right in to go get it.”

“But you knew it was gonna be dangerous, or impossible?”

“Impossible for _you_ , yeah. An’ probably impossible for me, too. So they told me to light a fire under my ass and get to you as soon as I could, to tell ya to forget it and come back to the compound. So, here I am!” There was a look on his face that left Jory feeling unsettled.

“Uh, okay. Well, I will just…leave, then…?”

Loren pulled a .44 pistol from his belt and pointed it against Jory’s forehead. Jory gasped and raised his hands, trembling. “Now you see, you little shit, this is where the story gets better. I come over that hill back there, hoping you had made your way to the back side of that junkyard to scope it out, and what do I see?” He stepped closer to Jory and drew the cold metal of the barrel down the middle of the teenager’s face to rest underneath his chin. Loren’s breath smelled sour, as did his body odour. Jory shuddered. “I saw you, the Hollys’ little golden boy, _talking to synths_.”

Jory’s immediate instinct was to deny it. “I don’t know what y—ULK!” He doubled over, clutching his stomach, where Loren had punched him.

“Don’t you even fucking _dare_ deny it, you bastard.” Loren’s voice had dropped to a harsh growl. “You spoke to them, and then they went to the junkyard, and a whole lot makes a lot of sense, now.” He put the gun back against the bottom of Jory’s chin. “I don’t know how you did it, getting synths to get that formula for you, and in front of the boss, but that don’t matter, now. I _saw_ you. An’ now, I’m gonna drag your skinny, synth loving ass, back to the Hollys myself and let them decide what to do with you.” He grunted, sounding disappointed. “Obviously, I want to gut you, personally, but I would rather let them do it and give me your job.”

Jory was trembling so violently, his knees were knocking against each other. His mind was working as fast as it could, but landing on nothing useful. _At least he didn’t see me use the dead drop. They’ll never know I was working for the Railroad. They’ll just see me as some kind of freak. They might even peg me as former Institute._ He sniffed.

“Come on, got nothin’ to say? Really?” Loren pressed the gun against Jory’s chin, increasing the pressure enough to cause Jory’s head to tilt. “The part that doesn’t make sense is why join the very people tryin’ to get rid of the synths, when you obviously have them workin’ for you? What did you get out of it? A shitty place to sleep?”

Jory whimpered but did not reply. He closed his eyes and tried not to breathe in when Loren breathed out.

“Well? Answer me, asshole! The Hollys aren’t gonna be so kind as t –“ Loren’s voice choked off, and there was the smell of seared flesh. Jory opened his eyes just as Loren fell to his knees, clutching his neck. 

X3-22 stepped out from beside the pillar and shot again, the beam from her laser rifle landing squarely into Loren’s right eye, exploding it immediately before burning directly into his skull. He landed into the grass with a heavy thud, hardly a twitch to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have many more chapters written for this story but they are raw and need editing and potentially some reworking as well (as all things do). My personal life has made it difficult to emotionally focus energy on writing lately so I am taking a little break. If you have read this far, I thank you for your support and hope you will check back for another update soon. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of contemplated suicide. Practice self care! <3

“Are you unharmed, sir?” X3 asked, replacing her rifle into its holster, hardly fazed by Loren’s death.

“Oh god oh my god oh my god,” Jory babbled, his entire body shaking. He scrabbled sideways to get away from the corpse. X3 caught him, and turned him by the shoulders to face her.

“It does not appear as though you are injured. I am glad I got here when I did.”

“You didn’t have to kill him!” Jory’s voice was shrill and threaded with shock.

X3 tilted her head, before responding. “He was threatening you, and speaking to you quite inappropriately. He also had his weapon against your head. It appeared that _he_ intended to kill _you_.”

Jory fell directly to the ground and searched around for his water. “You…you’re right. He was going to…bring me back, and let the Hollys kill me, or worse.”

In a move that surprised him, X3 picked up his water from the ground, then sat next to him. She handed him the bottle. “The task was successful, by the way, sir. I have your targeting card.” She pulled it out of one of her many pockets in her coat and offered it to him.

Jory stared at it for a moment, when his path had become clear, and he smashed it against the concrete pillar. It shattered into a dozen tiny pieces of metal and plastic. He shook out his hand and took a gulp of his water. X3 merely watched.

“Was there something wrong with that component?”

“Loren – that’s him – told me the Hollys needed it to finish a weapon they want to use against the Railroad. He came here because he knew it was too dangerous for me to get by myself, to stop me from trying.” He turned his head to look X3 in her emotionless face, and offered her the water. She declined with a slight shake of her hand. “He…he said he saw me talking to you, and the Gen 1s. If the Puritans found out, they’d…they’d…” Jory took two deep breaths to steady himself. “I will go back and tell them, he died pulling me out of the junkyard, and that I couldn’t get the card. That buys me enough time to get a message back to the Railroad about the gatling gun, to help them get prepared.”

“The Railroad?”

“Yeah. You know about them?”

“You’re _helping_ the Railroad?” X3 asked, instead.

“Sure. Kind of. That’s a bit of a long story. But they take care of synths, not hunt and murder them.” He swiped some hair out of his face. “Is that not okay?”

“The Institute had good reason to believe that the Railroad aided the operative later responsible for its raid and destruction. The Railroad is one of the causes of its fall.”

Jory turned to look at X3, an incredulous look on his face. “What?”

“On top of that, they were a thorn in the side of the Institute for years. It’s one of the reasons we ever needed the Synth Retention Bureau to begin with: they aided several Institute assets in altering their memories and smuggling them out of the Commonwealth. By helping synths, they were bungling Institute operations. Things they simply couldn’t ever possibly understand.”

“That’s wrong, you’re wrong!” Jory exclaimed. “Almost everyone in the Commonwealth is _scared_ of synths. They kill them on sight, or…or pull them apart, or torture them. Things like that. And you know why?”

X3 did not respond.

“Synths on the surface weren’t like synths at home. They attacked innocent people, wiped out settlements. They still do. But some…some synths didn’t want that. They just wanted a life. So, the Railroad helped them have a life, that the Institute wouldn’t _let_ them have.” He pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on top of them. “And anyway, they…well, they adopted me. They took me in and took care of me, when there was no one else. Not even my sister.”

“A lot of things escalated, following the appearance of the operative into the Institute. Father intended to make him the successor, did you know that?”

“I was twelve.”

X3 seemed to think about that before responding next. “Yes, I understand. You had a rigid routine of classroom studies and exercise schedules. Politics of the Institute would not have been your priority.”

Jory scraped a fingernail in the dirt, frowning.

“For what it may be worth,” X3-22 continued, “while the Railroad aided the operative in entering the Institute and eventually leading to the events resulting in its destruction, data I was able to retrieve before the central mainframe went offline indicate that ultimately, the Railroad were not confirmed active in the final act of infiltration.”

Jory sniffed and looked off into the distance. “No? Then who was it?”

X3 shook her head. “Inconclusive. The majority of the infiltrators were uniformed and well armed. Many yet, were Generation 3 synths that took up arms against their own home.” She frowned deeper, something Jory was not even sure could have been possible. “A most confusing situation.”

The two sat quietly for several moments. He sniffed again. “You know what, though? I don’t know if I’d go back, even if I could. I’ve learned a lot about the world on the surface, and…I think the Institute was a great big bubble that was gonna pop sometime.” He looked over at X3, who was staring out into the wasteland. “You were on the surface a lot. Don’t you think so?”

“I completed my objectives as directed and relayed back and forth, as needed. I did not spend time observing the surface, its settlements, or its people.”

Jory sighed. “Of course. All you synths were nothing if not very strict.”

“Discipline was of utmost importance.” X3 turned, then pointed to Jory’s shirt. “You got some of Loren’s blood on you.”

“Oh no, really?!” Jory looked down. X3 immediately flicked him in the chin.

“Indeed not. I made you look.” She bore the slightest of smirks.

_A synth just pranked me. A synth._

_Really, what exactly is happening to my life?_

Jory stretched and made to stand. “I need to go. The Puritans know Loren came to get me and I should head back right away. Thanks for…for everything.” What else was there to say?

X3-22 stood and stepped in front of him. “Please, sir. I advise that you allow me to accompany you. It’s simply not safe to travel alone, and unarmed.”

“I’m fine, and I’ve been fine this whole time. I can’t risk being seen talking to synths, again, or, well,” Jory gestured towards Loren’s body, though he couldn’t bring himself to look at it. “I’m still on a job, okay? A mission to get information out of the Puritans and give it to the Railroad, and I can’t just give that up.” He adjusted his purse and tucked his water bottle into it. “The Institute made mistakes, but the synths that are left don’t deserve to be tortured or dismembered or killed. The Railroad wants all that to stop. To give them, and me, a real chance for a life.” _Getting famous for it is just the bonus._ He made to step around her, but X3 blocked his path. “Come on, I need to go. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

“Perhaps not, but _I_ can help _you._ My directives are to serve the Institute. To abandon you now would be irresponsible, let alone completely against everything I know to be dutiful and honest.” She paused and looked Jory directly in the eyes. “May I speak freely, sir?”

“Uh…yeah. Whatever you need.” He felt compelled to keep his eyes locked in hers.

“For nearly two years, I’ve searched, quite desperately, for remnants of the Institute such as yourself. I escorted a few out of the Commonwealth, who dismissed me once they’d felt they were safe, and a few others wanted nothing to do with me at all.” She swallowed. “I’m the product of vigorous training and extreme discipline. I have no desire to put that aside and attempt a false life as a…person of this world. I need purpose. Direction. Tasks.” X3 knelt on a single knee to be on a level with Jory. “A wandering existence is not appropriate for one such as myself. I…” She paused, cleared her throat, then carried on, “I had decided to end my life. I set out this morning to head to the ocean, a symbolic fixture in human lore, to just finish it. To stop wandering. To…discard myself, since the Institute no longer existed to do it, for me.”

Jory wiped a tear from his eye. “I…”

“I found your signal, followed you here. The rest, you know.” X3 stood, resuming the emotionless demeanour that Jory expected of the courser, and offered nothing more.

Jory swallowed. He felt an immense amount of pressure to help X3, though he was at a loss as to how to do so.

“Ah. My apologies, sir. I overstepped, and it was inappropriate. I didn’t mean to burden you with the decision of discarding me, or not. If you truly wish to return alone, I will respect that.”

Before he realized he was doing it, Jory stepped forward and flung his arms around the courser, burying his head into her leathers. The courser armour, despite being quite worn and worked in, felt firm against his cheek. It smelled of the wasteland, like dirt, and fresh air. “Don’t do it. Don’t…discard yourself. We didn’t ask for these circumstances, but…but we deserve to have a place in this world. To be part of it. To be legendary.”

“Legendary?” X3 repeated. “I have no wish for an elevated status.”

“That’s fine. I don’t want to have to compete with you for it.” Jory released the courser and looked up into her eyes. “You really want to help?”

“Absolutely.”

“Go to the Railroad. They’re stationed in the National Guard Training Yard, south of Malden a little ways. Put your hands up and be sure to tell them you come in peace. Ask for Desdemona, and don’t talk to anyone else until someone goes to get her.”

X3 nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

“Tell her that Microchip sent you and that you’re there to help. Your name is…ah…” He paused, thinking.

“I don’t require another name. I am X3-22.”

“Your name as a _courser_ is X3-22, but you’re…well, that part of your life is over.” Jory tapped his hand against his leg while he contemplated a name. “’Tia’. What about ‘Tia’? It’s close to ‘twenty-two.’ Kind of.”

X3 seemed to mull it over. Finally, she nodded. “As you prefer, Microchip. I will introduce myself as Tia, enter peacefully, and ask for Desdemona. Is there a chance they will ask for further proof that you directed me there? Is there some passphrase to gain their trust?”

“Umm…” Jory looked down to his purse when he saw Mirabel’s bracelet. He took it off and held it out to Tia. “This belonged to my sister. Deacon gave it to me, he’ll know it’s from me to you when he sees it.” He took a breath. “Guess you better hope Deacon’s around to validate it.”

“Understood,” Tia replied, taking the bracelet and tucking it into one of her many pockets. “Shall we walk back together, for some of the journey? I can follow and in stealth, if you’re concerned about additional members of this Puritans group possibly spotting you.”

“Actually…yeah. I’d be okay with that.”

Jory began the walk back to the Puritans. It was midafternoon by that point and he knew he’d have to hustle to get back before sunset. He wasn’t sure he’d be invited to sleep in the bunker again, but even the thought of the bedroll in the cozy confines of Jordan’s camp was far more appealing than huddling up underneath a ruined car in the wasteland. He left Loren behind, untouched, rehearsing his story in his mind as he walked. He elected to use the road once more. Now and then he’d glance behind him in an attempt to see some sign of Tia’s presence, but never saw a thing. Tia didn’t break her word and remained invisible.

They were approaching the dirt track that would lead him directly to the front gate of the Puritan compound. Jory looked around for some cover, and found it in the form of an abandoned container on the back of a shipping truck. He looked around to ensure there weren’t any prying eyes around. There was a retreating caravan heading west a handful of minutes down the road, but Jory suspect they wouldn’t turn back anytime soon. He climbed into the back of the open, empty truck. “Tia, in here.”

The courser reappeared, but did not climb into the truck. Jory didn’t press the issue. He pointed to the east. “That’s the compound. This is where we part, for now. Do you think you’ll find the Railroad okay?”

“Affirmative. I will have no trouble finding the training yard.”

Jory nodded. “Okay. Well…listen. If you _do_ find out that the Railroad really was there, that night, don’t…don’t do anything, okay?”

Tia blinked. “What do you mean, ‘don’t do anything’?”

“I mean, don’t start shooting them or something. Wait until we can talk and we can figure something out together.”

“You’re asking me to investigate and determine if the Railroad were present during the fall of the Institute, but not act upon the information immediately?”

Jory swallowed. The word “investigate” worried him. “Don’t interrogate anyone, or anything. If the information comes up, then it comes up, but –“

Tia smiled, a genuine grin. It threw Jory off so much that he stopped talking. “I’ll ask a few questions, because I want to know as much as you do. I’ll take it as a direct order not to react violently to the information until such time you can confer with me to determine an appropriate course of action. Is that satisfactory?”

“We’ll figure it out _together_ ,” Jory repeated.

“Let’s not assume culpability. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. That’s fine. Is it clear out there?”

Tia glanced around, then nodded. He shimmied out of the back of the truck and hopped to the ground, causing small puffs of dust to stir up at his feet. “Should I expect to hear from you?”

“I’ll keep using the dead drops. Just remember my instructions and hopefully this whole mess finishes up soon.” Jory sighed. “I better go.”

“Stay safe,” Tia replied, vanishing out of sight once more.

“I’ll try.” Jory wanted to say, ‘I always do,’ but after the confrontation with Loren, his confidence was a little shaken. There seemed to be a commotion in the compound. He could hear raised voices and the smoke seemed thicker than typical. He meandered through the main gate and noticed several destroyed Gen 1s and 2s lining the main pathway. A little further up ahead, Jordan and his friends were laughing and carrying on while kicking apart a Gen 2. Its legs had become fully detached from its torso. Jordan was gleefully stomping onto the midsection, cheering every time his action caused a piece of metal from inside to come flying out.

Jory truly thought he would be sick, that time. He covered his mouth and clutched his stomach and veered off the main path, hoping to slip by Jordan and his pals, but it was no use. Jordan called out to Jory and approached the younger teen.

“Ira, dude! You missed the whole thing! It was…well, it was fucking awesome!” He dragged Jory over to the Gen 2 he’d been kicking and pointed at it. “My dad killed this one – my _dad_ , who pisses himself whenever he sees a goddamn feral ghoul. My mom got that one back there,” he pointed behind him at the pile of scrap that had been a Gen 1. “It was unbelievable.”

Jory’s face had become very pale. The smell in the camp had reached peak noxious, with several camps burning the synth parts in barrel fires. “What happened?”

Jordan landed another kick to the Gen 2, its midsection responding with a metallic thump and causing a cascade of glass shards to fall out onto the ground. “Must’ve broken something else,” he cackled. His face was flushed and sweaty. He was shamelessly enjoying himself. “Anyway, so yeah, maybe a couple hours ago one of the patrols saw this group of synths just standing around. It was unreal.”

“Just standing around?” Jory parroted.

“Yeah. They are usually marching around, their guns out, shootin’ at anything they see, but this time they were just standing still, a big group of them. Like their batteries had died, only when the guy got close, he could hear ‘em chatting away at each other.”

“Spooky. What were they saying?”

Jordan shrugged. “Robotic bullshit, stuff about searching for signals. It was like they were arguing, or at least, that’s what the patrol said. He didn’t stay too long before runnin’ back here to gather some people to mow them down.”

Jory suddenly felt very cold. “How many synths? Was it a big fight?”

“I don’t know. As many as you see all along here, I guess. A dozen? Most of ‘em had been taken out before the others started shooting back.” Jordan kicked a severed component down the path and watched it skip and roll into another broken synth. “Something wrong? You look real pale.”

Jory took a staggered breath. “I’ve had a bit of a rough day.”

“Oh yeah? Well, that sucks. That short guy with the bad breath came into the camp looking for ya, earlier this morning, before all this happened. Said he needed to find you, pull you out of the job.” Jordan dusted his hands off on the front of his pants before reaching over and picking up an open bottle of Nuka Cola from the ground and taking a sip. “That guy go to tag you out, or something?”

“Kind of. I got sent by mistake and he came out to tell me not to do it. There were Gunners…he got killed, trying to get me out of the junk yard safely.” Jory shuddered, seeing the laser bolt from Tia’s rifle entering Loren’s eye and exploding it once more.

The smile melted off of Jordan’s face. He took another sip of his drink, before offering it to Jory. Jory accepted a small taste and handed it back. The radioactive sting with the insane sweetness was enough to make him want to throw up, all over again. “Wow…well, sorry you had to go through that. Maybe you better go tell the Hollys what happened, right away.”

Jory nodded. “Yeah. I will. Sorry to kill your buzz, Jordan.”

“Aw, don’t worry about it, Ira. Nothin’ that getting back to smashing the shit out of these synths won’t cure!”

Jory slinked off in the direction of the inner gate, not wanting to face the Hollys, but having no other idea as to what to do or where he could go to have some space to himself. _Loren wanted me dead or worse. Why do I feel so guilty about his death?_

_Probably because if I didn’t have this beacon signal I couldn’t turn off, Tia never would have followed me, and Loren wouldn’t have had reason to want to turn me in. Plus, he’d likely still be alive._

_Loren was a scumbag who wanted nothing more than to find some dirt on me for his own sick pleasure. If I hadn’t met Tia, she’d be dead, instead, having blown her brains out next to the ocean._

He scuffed down the ramp and into the bunker, feeling very sorry for himself. He pounded on the door several times before the klaxon went off. Jory stood aside and watched the door swing open, and Ethan Holly step through it.

“Ira, there you are! Where’s Loren? Did he not catch up with you?”

“He’s dead.” Jory tried hard not to let his voice quiver or crack. “He found me in the junkyard with those Gunners, trying to figure out a way to the power armour and the targeting card, but he didn’t make it back out. Turret.” He swallowed, then sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“They killed him? Jesus,” Ethan swore. He placed his hands on his hips and looked down at the ground, tapping his foot. “That ain’t good. Loren was sloppier than you, but he still had his uses as a scout. Shit.”

Jory nodded solemnly but did not respond.

“You’re sure he’s dead? Totally sure?”

Jory looked up to see Ethan was staring straight at him. His blood pressure increased and he tried to ignore it. “I saw the bullet from the turret go right into his eye and pop it like a blister.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Ethan repeated, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Damn, kid. Sorry you went through that, all of that.” He reached over and pounded on the door. “As if we don’t have enough problems, right now,” he muttered as an afterthought.

“What kind of problems?”

The klaxon went off and the door opened painfully slowly. “The caravans are thinning out. We think the Railroad might be sniping them off or redirecting them away from us, meaning they’ve been watching us somehow since we took them out at Tower Twelve.” Ethan clenched his fist and pounded it into the button on the other side of the door and led them down the stairs. “We were already strapped for supplies, to keep this place running. That’s just making it worse. The troops have started getting restless and bloodthirsty, but, ah, the big plan doesn’t have all the parts it needs to be ready to go, so we can’t make our next move just yet.” He sighed. “That targeting card would have really helped move things forward, but it wasn’t worth you dying to try getting it. Too bad Loren died trying to get you out of trying to get it. I’m not sure he had scouted out an alternative.”

“Sorry,” Jory mumbled, again.

“Not your fault, cupcake.” Ethan held the door for Jory to enter the war room ahead of him. Oscar was in the middle of an argument with the three others remaining of his inner circle. Ethan waved at Oscar and made to take his spot next to his brother.

Oscar immediately stopped yelling and turned to Jory. “The fuck is he doing in here?” He was looking at Jory, but the question was obviously directed towards Ethan.

“What? I thought you said to let him in.”

“I said to go open the door and see what he wanted, dipshit,” Oscar growled. “Where’s Loren?”

“Dead. Got nailed by a turret while rescuing the cupcake,” Ethan answered.

“Damn it!” Oscar exploded, slamming both fists onto the surface of the desk in front of him. Jory thought he felt the entire room shake. “And what, you just stood there and watched him die?” That time, the question was directed at Jory.

A lump had formed in Jory’s throat. He instinctively drew his hands up to his chest, feeling vulnerable and downright scared. “I…I didn’t…”

“Give the kid a break, Oscar, he can’t be blamed for our mistakes, let alone the other problems.” The dark skinned woman with the wild hair spoke. Oscar trembled, snarling, but did not respond.

“I’ll take him upstairs,” Mandy chimed from the kitchen door. “Y’all can get back to your screaming fest.”

“Watch your lip, you freak,” Oscar threatened dangerously. Mandy ignored him, placed both hands on Jory’s shoulders, and forcibly steered him back through the way he came and to the stairwell to the surface.

“Go get some rest, kid. I’ll tell them you need a couple days off.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Jory replied miserably. “I know I can help. What happened to Loren was an accident.”

“He had it coming.” Mandy hit the button and the door swung open, klaxon blaring and all. “I think things are going to start happening really fast. Get rest while you can.” With that, she closed the door behind him, leaving the teen standing alone. The sounds of the excitement within the camp remained jovial and excited, as the compound continued celebrating the destruction of the dozen synths found outside the camp.

Jory had a lot to think about. In the meantime, he sought out a much-needed bath.


End file.
